The Turn of a Friendly Card
by Brighid45
Summary: During his final and repeated year of medical school, House meets someone not boring (no, it's not Wilson). Adventures ensue. This is a what-if idea that came to me while listening to some music from my college days. There are canon elements, but as it's set in House's college days, it's not an episode of the series. Not a part of the Treatment or Discipline series.
1. Chapter 1

_(A/N: This is a what-if story that popped into my head a while back while listening to some favorite music from college days. There are some canon elements, but it's not a canon episode of the series by any stretch, as you'll see. It's also not a part of any stories I've written before this._

 _Some of the experiences related here did happen once upon a time. It's been many years since I visited U of M's central and north campuses; no doubt in the interval things have changed quite a bit. I honestly don't care. This is set in the long ago, not now. At any rate, hope you enjoy the story. Many thanks to Babalooblue for help in reading the rough draft and commenting._

 _If you'd like another take on young House, please read BabalooBlue's story_ Everything's Going To Be Different _. Well worth your time, and drop a review while you're at it too please. Reviews are the only payment we get from writing what we love. -Brig)_

 _University of Michigan_

 _Ann Arbor_

 _October, 1982_

"Y'know, they put practice schedules on the door for a reason."

Greg finished the riff and didn't bother to turn around. He knew who it was—the girl who came in every day at this time, her name down in neat, small writing on the paper schedule taped to the door. "You're ten minutes late." When there was no answer he kept on playing. "Glaring at me won't change things."

Silence followed this remark; she'd walked away, as usual. The lack of pushback didn't surprise him much. Most people didn't know how to deal with open, antagonistic honesty. He continued to play and enjoyed the privacy of the practice room long after her departure.

Later he mooched a coffee at the Commons and took up a corner, the better to scope out potential scores and keep an eye on various forms of trouble. But he found his thoughts co-opted by the girl whose practice time he'd stolen. He'd seen her around the north campus, sometimes here or in the library. She was always alone, hauling a backpack full of books and an instrument case. He knew a fair number of grinds and she seemed to be one too, so he couldn't understand why he watched her. She was nothing special to look at –average rack and a big butt hidden under the usual uniform of jeans and sweater, dark brown hair held back in a thick braid, her features obscured by oversized glasses. "Boring," he said under his breath, and took a gulp of coffee.

Still, later that evening he stopped by the Burlodge, where most of the underclassmen music students lived, and used a little charm on an RA to get information.

"You're looking for Beth," she informed him. "She's in the east T-section, last door on the right." The girl gave him an amused glance. "Good luck. She's pretty anti-social."

He heard the music before he reached her door—it wasn't loud, but her room was on the end, isolated from the rest of the floor. Greg envied her. Even if it was university housing, she had more privacy than he did at the frat house. "Alan Parsons. She's a nerd," he said aloud, and banged on her door.

She didn't answer for a full minute. "Who is it?" She sounded wary.

"Candygram." Greg injected a fake cheerfulness in the word. After a few moments the door opened a fraction. She peered out at him and frowned.

" _You_."

"Yup, me." He offered her raised brows. "Scared?"

"What do you want?" She hadn't backed down at all, in fact now she was on the defensive. He noted it with a stir of interest.

"Just came by to let you know the practice room is open."

"No it isn't. The building's locked at nine." In this light he couldn't tell what color her eyes were, but he could see they held a fair amount of animosity, with an edge of pain that both surprised and annoyed him. "Thanks for nothing. Hope you enjoyed the joke." And the door was shut in his face. He heard the lock turn, and the music fell silent. It was as plain a dismissal as he'd received in some time.

For several days when he had time between classes, he watched her from a distance. Her routine never varied; from dorm to practice to class to the Commons, she made the same stops every day without fail, and always alone, even on the bus to and from the main campus. She ate lunch with her nose in a book, oblivious to the noisy crowds around her.

On the fifth day he spent some of his hard-earned poker money to buy a burger and fries, and took a seat opposite her. "Hey." He kept his tone neutral. She didn't respond. Greg realized she was so deep in her read she hadn't heard him. He knocked a knuckle against the book cover and she jumped, looked up at him in startlement. Just for a moment she was almost pretty. Her skin was delicate and still held a vestige of a tan, with a few freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks; in natural light her eyes were a soft, deep cornflower blue with little flecks of gold near the iris.

"Anybody home?" He offered her a smirk. Her brows lowered. In silence she shut the book with a snap and stuffed it into her backpack, got to her feet, picked up her gear, and left him there.

"Told you she was antisocial." It was the RA from the Burlodge. She gave him a derisive smile. "Whatever bet you made about her, you won't win it." She sauntered off to sit with her friends.

"You know some music student named Beth? She plays violin or viola," he asked Crandall later that evening at the mid-week poker game. His friend thought about it for a minute, which gave Greg the chance to sneak an ace into his hand and discard a six of hearts.

"Beth Bramble." Crandall sat back a bit. "Her teacher's pushin' her for a performance career, but she doesn't want it."

Greg felt his curiosity sharpen. "Do tell."

"She chose music education." Crandall glanced over at him. "She's nice. Leave her alone."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's nice," Crandall said again, and nothing more.

Of course that made it imperative for him to check lesson schedules, easily done as they were posted on the department head's door. Bramble was in early with him—some loser named Worthing. Greg hid behind a bathroom door and was rewarded with the sight of her headed into the office with case and music in hand. She didn't look pleased to be there.

"Good morning," he heard Worthing say. "I hope you've put in more practice time this week. You need it."

It didn't take long to discover Bramble was good—better than good. He listened as she played and knew she'd done almost nothing else in her short life except practice and perform. Still, she had superior interpretive skills allied with decent technical ability; she'd worked hard and refined her natural talent. He wondered once more why she'd chosen to attend a large university. She could have gone to Berklee or Juilliard . . . Raised voices caught his attention.

"—they'll give you first consideration, do you understand what that means?"

"I don't want it." Bramble sounded both weary and exasperated. "You _know_ I don't. This is more about you than me."

"You're wasting a tremendous gift!"

"I don't think so."

Greg didn't wait to hear the rest of the argument; he left quietly for the basement practice rooms. He needed time to put things together.

That evening he made the trek to her dorm room. When he knocked he expected the same lengthy wait time, only to be surprised when the door was yanked open.

"What do you want?" Bramble glared at him. Greg folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. From his vantage point he could see her personal space more clearly. He'd expected the usual clutter girls brought with them—vases crammed with dried eucalyptus, posters, stuffed animals, pillows—but her room was almost stark. Standard-issue twin bed, desk and chair supplemented with a music stand, stacked milk crates crammed with albums and books, a few river stones on the windowsill, a stereo with a turntable . . . The book titles were telling—biographies, science fiction, poetry, science reference; no romances or fantasy.

"Quite an interesting discussion you had with your teacher this morning. So why don't you want a position in the symphony?"

She was silent for a few moments. "You and your friends at the frat house probably find this bet hilarious. I don't. Stop—stop following me. Just stop."

Greg stayed where he was. "People make idiotic assumptions."

Her chin went up. "Tell me it's not true."

"It isn't."

" _Liar._ " The deep bitterness in that single word shocked him.

"Only when I need to be." He let his gaze travel over her. "You could stand to lose some weight."

"No shit, Sherlock." She didn't flinch; that told him she'd been taunted plenty of times before and learned to put up a stoic front. "Anything else?"

"There's no bet."

She actually laughed. Then she shut the door. He had to move fast to get out of the way.

"You're just not used to having girls reject you," Crandall informed him the next day. "Try being nice."

"That word again." Greg slugged down the last of his beer. "I've had girls dump me. Life isn't nice."

"But she is."

"I haven't seen any evidence of that."

"I have. Look, she's a musician. Share your music with her." Crandall ate the last of his pizza slice and burped. "Share _something_. You're treating her like an experiment."

It was a fair assessment. So Greg chose Friday evening to show up at her place, this time with a couple of albums tucked under his arm. When she opened the door he held them in front of him like a shield and pretended to cringe. That earned him a stony glare.

"You're persistent, I'll give you that. It must be a big chunk of money."

"There. Is. No. Bet." He sighed when she made no comment. "Trust me, I'd never work this hard for anything less than a grand and no one at my house has that kind of cash." They stood there in silence for a moment. "Ask me in. You know you want to." She shook her head. "I brought music." He tried a smile. "We both like it. Something we have in common."

"We have nothing in common." To his surprise he saw what could be a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I have studying to do. Go away."

Greg craned his neck to look past her. "Algebra 101 . . . I can help you with that." He offered her a smile.

"It's a game to you, isn't it? Charming people." Her voice held no emotion now. "You do what you need to, to get what you want. But that won't work with me because I have nothing you'd be interested in. Now if you don't mind, I've got tests tomorrow."

Greg stayed where he was. "I don't think it's ever occurred to you that a friendly gesture can be real."

"When I see one I'll let you know." And once more the door was closed in his face.

Later, as he sat on the back porch with a beer and a cigar, he brooded over his failure. Somehow this had become a challenge, one he was determined to win. He thought about the stack of textbooks on her desk. Most of them had been remedial science or math subjects. _Music education_ , he reminded himself. _That's the key._

On Friday he skipped classes and decided to show up at one of Bramble's instead. It happened to be basic biology. The grad student who gave the lecture on the carbon dioxide cycle was about as hung over and bored as Greg expected, but that didn't seem to matter to his quarry. She took careful notes, head bent over her books—the classic illustration of a total grind. At the end she packed everything away with neat precision, lifted her head and saw him. Her impassive expression faltered. In that moment she looked young and vulnerable, her eyes wide. Then the shields went up. She passed by him without comment. He fell into step with her. They walked in silence for some time, until at last he was compelled to comment.

"Seriously? Basic science courses in your third year?" At her continued silence he rolled his eyes. "You should be sleeping in, not wasting your time with this stupid shit."

She said nothing as she entered the Union. With Greg trailing behind her she bought her usual cup of coffee and a muffin, made her way to a table in the far corner, and claimed it. Greg sat down opposite her and snagged the muffin. She watched him unwrap it and take a big bite.

"Stale," he said through a mouthful of crumbs, and pushed the rest of it back to her. "How's the coffee?"

Without comment she reached out to take the remains. That was when he saw the scars—faint pink lines on her forearm. On impulse he took her wrist in a gentle clasp. She froze; he felt her shiver when he touched her.

"Smart," he said after a moment. "You knew you'd bleed out faster if you cut lengthwise and not across the wrist." He rubbed his thumb gently over the lines. "Deep too. That takes courage."

She closed her eyes. He saw her throat move as she swallowed once, twice. "So now you think you know me." He could barely hear her. "Congratulations. Go collect your money and leave me _alone_."

He didn't let go. Instead he leaned in a bit and waited until they made eye contact. "Tell." He stroked her with a slow, deliberate caress.

She pulled her arm free and studied him. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't. I'm just curious. But you need to tell the story to someone or you'll crack up again. It might as well be me."

She was silent so long he nearly gave up. At last she nodded. "All right, if it'll get you to leave me alone. But not here. Not now."

"Tonight. Meet me at your place. I'll bring the pizza." Greg held his breath. Bramble looked down at the table.

"Okay."

' _The Eye in the Sky,' Alan Parsons Project_


	2. Chapter 2

Beth stumbled into her room and shoved the door shut behind her. _What just happened?_ she thought, and dumped her stuff on the floor. She felt cold and nauseated, and she couldn't stop shaking. But all she remembered was her wrist in Greg's hand, the unexpected gentleness of his touch. He had lean fingers with callused pads—a musician's hand, much like her own.

She sat on her bed and looked out the window, a bit surprised to see sunlight bright on scarlet maple leaves. _I can't do this_. She'd felt an attraction from the start and fought it; it was hopeless, he'd never be interested in someone like her. But she wasn't some specimen for him to study either . . . and yet he'd maneuvered her into giving him the truth about what had happened, something she'd vowed never to do. Slowly she lay down and closed her eyes. Greg's face rose up before her—bony, strong features just short of handsome under a shock of chestnut curls, his intense blue eyes bright with amused curiosity. He could outthink her a thousand ways from Sunday and leave her bleeding from a few careless words, but far worse, he would destroy the defenses she'd crafted to get through school, and that would lead to nothing but disaster.

 _What do I do?_ Her heart clenched in helpless dread. She was not ready for this—she'd never be ready. Keeping people at arm's length had made continued living possible. One more year after this one and she'd be out on her own, able to make decisions without interference . . . The fact that she was lonely, that she missed casual contact and time spent with friends, was just the price of her choice. _But how long can I keep paying it? And why should I be the one to pay? What happened wasn't my fault . . ._ She closed her eyes, weary now of the thoughts chasing around in her head, and hoped sleep would take her away for a while. The last thing she wanted was to remember . . . Slowly she drifted into an uneasy doze.

Beth woke on the memory of Jacob's laugh. She opened her eyes to semi-darkness; the afternoon was already drawing down to dusk. Muted talk and laughter rose from the lawn outside as people came in from classes, ready for the weekend rounds of parties. After a time she eased herself upright and glanced at the alarm clock. Nearly five—Greg had said he'd come over by seven. She had some time to study then. No way would she dress up or do anything special. This was not a date. It wasn't even a casual interaction, more like an interview. _Or an interrogation_ , she thought, and went off to use the bathroom.

He was an hour late, and when she opened the door to his knock a distinct reek of beer greeted her. But he'd brought a pizza and a Coke, a thoughtful gesture she hadn't expected. In silence she stepped back from the door to allow him access, an act she found difficult. He watched her, his vivid gaze intent. He said nothing though, just set the pizza on her desk and handed her the Coke before he claimed her only chair. He crossed his long legs, tipped the chair back and held out his hand. When she stared at him he wriggled his fingers in an impatient gimme gesture. "Two slices."

She discovered paper plates inside the box, so she took two of the bigger pieces, placed them on a plate and offered them, then checked the bottle of Coke. The cap hadn't been removed and replaced; presumably it was safe to drink. She searched in her desk drawer for an opener, only to have the bottle taken from her. Greg popped the cap on the edge of the desk and handed it back. Beth noted he'd already eaten most of one slice. Without comment she held out her hand for his plate, and gave him another one before she took one for herself. The pie was loaded with sausage, pepperoni and bacon as well as extra cheese—okay for someone with a fast metabolism, but she'd have to be careful.

"You listen to rock?" Greg glanced at the stereo. She'd tuned it to one of the local stations, more for background noise than anything else.

"Classical's my day job." She nibbled at her pizza. Even room temperature it wasn't bad. She suspected he'd boosted it from a frat party but that was his business and none of hers.

"Huh. Not a snob, then." He took a huge bite from the third slice and barely bothered to chew. There was a restless energy in him that fascinated her. It was as if he had an overloaded live wire burning deep within. "So talk." Her throat closed up. She set down the slice and stared at it. "Come on, don't chicken out." Greg sat up. "You agreed to this—"

"Give me a minute!" She snapped the words out before thinking. "I know what I agreed to!" She put the plate on the desk and took a big swig of Coke, felt the carbonation burn her throat. It cleared away her panic at least. "Okay, well . . . I don't know how much you want to know."

"All of it." He watched her with those diamond-bright eyes. "Start from the beginning."

She passed a hand over her face. "Are you sure-?"

"Yes." He tossed the empty plate onto the desk and leaned back, arms behind his head. Beth nodded.

"All right." She gathered her thoughts and pushed away fear. This was it, and she'd chosen to go ahead. She was a fool to trust him and yet he was right, she had to tell someone and she had no one else. "But—but first I want an equal exchange."

Silence greeted this statement. When she lifted her gaze, Greg had gone still.

"Equal exchange." He sounded odd. Beth nodded.

"Yes."

He swallowed. "You never said anything before."

"I didn't think of it. Now I have." She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. "Take it or leave it."

He continued to stare at her. "You really like your ultimatums."

"It's not an ultimatum. It's fair." She sipped her Coke and jumped when he laughed, a harsh bark that sounded loud in the small room.

"Fair is bullshit." He got up and paced to the door. "Forget it."

"Coward." The word slipped out before she could stop it. He paused, turned to glare at her.

" _Fuck_ you." He lunged forward. She bolted from the chair, but he only picked up the pizza box, shot her a contemptuous look and stalked out of the room. The slam of the door made the floor shake.

Beth didn't see him again for almost a week. She was no longer stalked or pestered, but Greg's absence bothered her in a way she hadn't expected. She found she was worried about him. When she'd issued her challenge he'd looked scared under the anger.

 _Don't be stupid_ , she told herself at every turn. _He knows how to take care of himself._ And yet she considered going over to the frat house to check on him, an idea so foolish she flinched every time it entered her mind.

The weekend came around again. Beth enjoyed Saturdays; the dorm was mostly empty on game day during football season, so she could accomplish her few household chores in relative peace. She gathered up her laundry, soap and a book, and headed down to the basement.

Both loads were in the dryers when someone entered the laundry room. Beth looked up and froze in surprise. Greg moved past her to the folding table and perched on it. He lifted his gaze to hers but said nothing. She set aside her book. They sat in silence for a few moments.

"Still want that deal?" His voice was harsh. Beth studied him.

"Yes." She wasn't sure that was true, but her intuition told her to proceed.

He looked away. "You go first."

"No way."

He almost smiled. "Impasse."

"How about a tradeoff?" Beth got up to take clothes out of the dryer. "I'll tell you something, you tell me something. If either one of us backs out, that ends the deal."

Greg swung his long legs as he considered it at length. She had almost all of the second load folded when he finally spoke. "'kay. You first."

She sighed. "Yeah, all right." With care she put her favorite sweater in the laundry basket. "My parents . . . my parents wanted me to major in performance. I decided on music education-"

"Already figured that out. Try again."

Beth shook her head. "Let me finish." She took a deep breath to steady herself. "I've always wanted to teach. Performance . . . you need to be really ambitious. Cut-throat, no holds barred. There's a lot of competition out there, to say the least. I'm not built that way. But—but there's another reason." All her spit dried up on the last word. _Just say it_ , she thought. _Just say it._ She swallowed and pushed on. "A few years ago, at music camp . . . someone . . ." She struggled to continue and couldn't.

"Someone what? Stole your music? Played a wrong note? Broke a string?"

"He raped me." Her stomach clenched. It was out now, no taking it back. She couldn't bear to see the look on Greg's face, the disgust—Without another word she picked up the laundry basket and fled.

 _("It's my word against yours. Do you really think anyone will believe you?" Jacob glanced at her, amused. "If you need an abortion that can be set up. Your parents probably aren't ready for a grandkid, especially if it looks like you.")_

Beth gained her room in record time. She dumped the basket on the bed and went to the door to close and lock it, only to find Greg there. Before she could shut him out he came in.

"You forgot your book." He offered it to her. She took it, her throat dry.

"Th-thanks."

"You also didn't wait for my trade."

That made her look up. He watched her, his vivid gaze steady. "You—you still want to?"

"Not really." He raised his brows. "Hard to top yours, but that's for you to judge."

She saw it then, the edge of unspoken pain and anger in his eyes behind the mocking humor. It had always been there, but she hadn't been able to put a name to it. Now she knew. In silence she nodded. Greg studied her for a few moments before he moved to the chair and sat. She perched on the bed, suddenly aware of the intimate atmosphere.

"You're blushing." He tilted his head. "I won't hurt you."

"I know." To her surprise, it was the truth. "Go ahead with your—your trade."

He exhaled and looked down at his hands. "I'm a military brat," he said after a short silence. "We moved around a lot."

It took Beth a moment to realize he expected her to figure it out. "So, no friends." He made a dismissive gesture. "No permanent home, either." She hesitated, remembered him stealing her practice time for weeks on end, and followed another intuitive lead. "Which meant you couldn't have a piano."

Greg blinked. Then he smiled, and Beth caught her breath. Just for a moment his whole face changed. She saw someone else there, someone she wanted to know. "Yeah."

"So sign up for some time and stop stealing mine."

He chuckled and glanced around the room. "Not a chance. Got anything to eat?"

Beth was surprised to find she was hungry. "No, but we can order a pizza or something, if you like." She hesitated. "There's a tv in the common room, if you—you want to watch something while we eat."

Greg nodded. He got to his feet. "Let's go."

"You're sure about this?" She had to ask.

"About the pizza? Yeah, I'm starving."

"No, I mean— _this_." She cursed her inability to explain. "The tradeoff. You really want to keep going? After . . . after what I told you?"

He paused with his hand on the door. "Especially after what you told me." His voice was quiet. Beth looked at him, then away.

"Okay."

' _Do Nothing', The Specials_


	3. Chapter 3

_(Many thanks to everyone who's been reading, especially those who've sent in reviews. I'm glad you're enjoying the story! I had great fun writing this. Now on to chapter 3-Brig)_

"Come on, it'll be fun. Crandall's gonna drive us down to Toledo. We'll grab dinner there and go to the club." Beth packed up her textbooks as Greg spoke. "You need to get out more."

She shot him a steely look, and yet she couldn't help but smile. "What do you want?"

He put a hand on his chest and gave her an innocent expression. " _Moi?_ I just thought you'd enjoy a Saturday night out."

"Uh huh." She slung the backpack over her shoulder. "I've got studying to do."

"You can study on Sunday." He switched to a wheedling tone. "It'll be fun."

"Fun . . . I've heard of that." She headed into the hallway and found Greg loping along next to her.

"So go."

"Why do you want me around?" She glanced at him, to find he watched her with that intent look she'd come to realize was habitual. "I'm—I'm not good at parties. Or anything else."

"How would you know? You've never been to any. You're a slave to that damn instrument." He grinned at her as they emerged into bright sunshine. "You have to practice other things too. Like having fun."

"I think you practice that too much." She put on a mock-stern tone.

"Gosh, thanks for the great advice Mom." She laughed and he swung around in front of her, walking backward. "Seriously, do it! DO IT," he wiggled his fingers at her as if he tried to send her brainwaves. Beth couldn't help but laugh again.

"Yeah, okay okay. I'll go."

"Excellent! Wear something pretty." He flapped a hand at her sweater and jeans. "Dress up for once."

"But I—" Beth found she spoke to empty air; Greg was already on his way across the quad, long legs pumping. She watched him and smiled. _So much energy_.

That evening she went through her closet. There wasn't much to choose from: her black concert gear, a dress for formal occasions, one for church or meetings, a couple of skirts, some blouses and her good blazer. The rest consisted of elderly sweaters, shirts and jeans. None of it was right for a night out. She would have to go shopping, and on a very tight budget.

After practice and breakfast the next morning, she ventured into town. The boutiques were too expensive; she'd have to try a thrift store or Goodwill first and hope for a miracle.

There wasn't much to choose from. Most of the clothes in her size were either muumuus or housecoats. Beth sighed as she pushed through the racks. Maybe she'd have to make do with a dress after all. But before that, she'd try one more place. Disheartened, she made the trek to the Kiwanis thrift sale. There might be something there . . .

She found the shirt ten minutes in. It was reduced to almost nothing because of a small rip in one of the side seams, something easily fixed. Beth checked it over. It was a long-sleeved tee shirt in dark red velour, with thin golden stripes and a boat neckline. When she tried it on, she could see it did something for her. Not that she'd ever be anything even remotely considered sexy with her big ass and belly, but paired with jeans and her blue corduroy jacket and some earrings she'd be more or less dressed up.

 _This is dangerous._ The thought popped into her head as she stood in front of the mirror. But she also knew she had grown tired of hiding. Part of her was still scared; the other part wanted to belong, even if in a small way. "It's just for tonight," she said aloud, and bought the shirt.

She was ready and waiting when Dylan showed up at her door. "Hey, you look great!" He grinned at her. "Ready to dance?" He glanced at her ballet flats. "Good choice. G-man's in the car, let's go."

They met a group of girls at the entrance. Beth ignored the snickers and pointed comments and wished she didn't blush so easily. She knew everyone considered her an antisocial freak; this would be gossip fodder for weeks on end. She lifted her chin. _So what? You survived mean girls before, you can do it again if you have to. Just have fun tonight._

Greg was indeed in the car. He rode shotgun, which left Beth in the back seat with Dylan's girlfriend Anne, who ignored her greeting. She wore a petulant expression under overly dramatic makeup. Beth took her seat and looked out the window as her excitement faded, replaced by foreboding. Greg hadn't said anything to her, his expression nothing short of grim; she hoped this wasn't a mistake or even worse, some kind of setup for a joke or prank. Her gut tightened at the thought, but she did her best to dismiss it. Dylan wouldn't be a willing party to anything like that. Her paranoia was making her jumpy.

The journey to Toledo took a little over an hour. The only one who made any attempt at conversation was Dylan. He seemed oblivious to the atmosphere in the car. Beth answered him and kept her comments cheerful. By the time they reached the city limits, she felt a little better. Maybe this wouldn't be a disaster.

Dinner was an all-you-can-eat buffet at a little place buried in a strip mall just off Monroe. It looked shabby, but the owner greeted both Greg and Dylan like old friends, and when Beth reached the salad bar she found the ingredients fresh and well-prepared. Anne made do with a piece of chicken and some mashed potatoes, most of which she left on her plate.

They stayed for an hour. In that time Greg went through several piles of food and ignored everyone else at the table. Beth's small store of optimism slowly dissipated. She spun out her interest in the salad she'd made, and hoped they'd leave soon.

"Hey." Greg's voice brought her out of her thoughts. He stared at her with an odd hostility in his vivid gaze. "What's your problem?"

"I don't have one. What's yours?" she snapped. He looked surprised, then amused. Dylan cleared his throat.

"Time to go," he announced. "Ladies, if you need to use the excuse do it here. There's always a line at the club."

Anne followed Beth to the bathroom. Once inside she said "Is Greg your boyfriend?"

"No." Beth turned on the tap and took some soap from the dispenser.

"That's good." Anne went to the single stall and opened the door. "Because I blew him this morning."

The ride to the club must have been a short one. Beth didn't pay attention. She sat in the back seat in a sort of odd numbness. _You thought he was different. You thought he was better. You were wrong._ She stared at the back of Greg's head. No wonder he hadn't bothered to talk to her. But why had he insisted she come with them tonight? For cover? That made no sense. Even worse, she was pretty sure Dylan didn't know any of this. How could Greg betray a friend that way?

When they arrived, the parking lot was packed. It was clear this was a popular place. Beth got out of the car, intent on escape, but Dylan stopped her. "Hang on." He held up a joint. "A little appetizer first." Beth shook her head.

Greg groaned. "Don't be a narc." Anne giggled and he glared at her.

"I'm not—" Beth stopped. She wouldn't apologize, least of all to Greg. "You'll need someone to stay sober for the drive home. I'll do it." With that she headed to the entrance and didn't look back.

She'd ordered a plain Coke with ice when Dylan caught up with her. "Are you okay? Sorry if I offended you."

"I'm fine, and you didn't offend me." She gave him a polite smile. "You'd better find Anne and buy her a drink." _And maybe she'll get drunk enough to tell you what happened so no one else has to._

The noise level was deafening, but then she'd expected that. It wasn't until she made it to the dance floor that she realized half the partiers were men in dresses.

 _Oh my god, it's a gay bar_. Beth grappled with the knowledge, torn between exasperation and laughter. Dylan and Greg came _here_ on a regular basis? Both of them were straight . . . weren't they? Did they really think she was so uptight a place like this would freak her out? She was a _musician_ , for god's sake. Her best friend in high school had been her stand partner and a lesbian. She'd known other people in orchestra and band who endured secrecy out of necessity. It hadn't made any difference to her, aside from empathy for the pain incurred by life in a culture that would never accept the truth.

So she watched people dancing in every outfit imaginable, from feather boas and purple spandex to beige polyester skirts and blazers, and decided it would be best for her not to ask questions. She was here to dance, so that was what she'd do.

It was a good decision. Half an hour in, while bouncing around to 'Ring My Bell', she found she enjoyed herself. There was something liberating about just moving to the beat, with the most inane but catchy music she'd heard in years throbbing in her ears. When someone put a hand on her shoulder she turned and faced Greg. Beams of light played over him as he stood there, a still point in the frenzy of energy around them. He said nothing. Beth moved back a little so his hand fell away, then turned and began to dance again. Her heart wasn't in it now, but she'd be damned if she'd show it.

By the time they arrived at last call, she was ready to go home. She'd grown tired of refusing a fair number of controlled substances, Anne seemed to have disappeared, and she couldn't find Greg or Dylan either. The first stirrings of anxiety touched her. What if they'd left without her? How would she get back to Ann Arbor?

She was about to go out to the parking lot to find the car when Dylan pushed through the crowds. He looked both confused and angry. Beth came to him. "What's wrong?" He shook his head.

"Let's go. You're driving, okay?"

When they reached the car, it was to find Greg in the back seat. Anne was absent. Beth got behind the wheel and started the engine as Dylan sat shotgun. "How do we get back?" She kept her tone quiet and matter of fact. Dylan gave her the directions and turned on the radio. It was clear he didn't want to talk, and neither did Greg. Beth guessed there had been some sort of falling out, probably over the information Anne had disclosed in the bathroom earlier. At this point it was none of her business; her sole focus was on returning to campus. She had no intention of sparking the fight ready to explode.

They'd just reached Sylvania when the car began to sputter. Her heart in her mouth, Beth moved to the shoulder and slowed down, only to have the engine stall. She put the car in neutral, then park and peered at the readouts. "Gas tank's empty, I think."

"Aw, fuckin' _a_ ," Dylan groaned. "I gave Steve ten bucks to fill up yesterday!"

"He lost it to me in last night's game." Greg kicked the seat. "That means you get to walk to the nearest station and bring some back, shithead."

"Yeah, well you can pay for it then!"

Dylan had been gone for some time and Beth was nearly asleep when Greg said "She told you. In the bathroom."

"Yes." Beth stared out at the darkness. Now and then a semi went by, and the tail wind it created made the car rock a little.

"You're pissed off at me." He sounded disgusted.

"And you think I shouldn't be."

"It was to prove a point."

The cold logic in his statement stabbed at her. "You betrayed a friend just to do that."

"I didn't betray anyone. His idiot ex-girlfriend did." Greg exhaled. "Go back to sleep."

It was near dawn when Dylan showed up with a gas can. In silence he filled the tank, stowed the can in the trunk and resumed his seat. The rest of the journey was made without conversation. When Beth pulled up in front of her dorm she put the car in park, rested her hand on Dylan's shoulder for a moment, then gathered up her things and left the car without looking back.

' _Ring My Bell,' Anita Ward_


	4. Chapter 4

Greg stretched out his legs and ignored the glare he received from the counter girl. He'd appropriated a table in the Commons without buying anything, a cardinal sin in a place this crowded.

 _She'll be here soon_. Bramble was an early riser. No doubt she'd already put in two hours of practice and another hour of study. That it was Sunday morning would make no difference to her; she always came here for a cup of weak coffee and an hour or two of reading.

It was two weeks since the fuckup in Toledo. In that time Bramble had retreated into her routine so far she was almost invisible. He hadn't tried to talk to her, but maybe by now she'd relaxed enough to at least listen to him. He felt an irrational urge to explain himself, and that bothered him. If he ambushed her here he could get it done and over with and everything would go back to normal.

She came in a few minutes later, bundled in a thick sweater and jeans under her shabby jacket, a couple of books tucked in the crook of her arm. She looked tired, but when she stepped up to the counter she chatted with the girl and smiled a little, polite as always. Greg slipped into line behind her as she started to order.

"I'll have whatever she's having." He filled his words with plenty of fake cheerfulness. To her credit, Bramble didn't so much as cringe. The counter girl glanced from him to her.

"Is that okay?"

For answer Bramble handed her a five and gave a single nod. The girl shot him another glance, shrugged and went off to get the coffees.

"I've got a table in the corner. You can hide there if you like," Greg announced. No reaction. "The silent treatment won't work with me, by the way."

The counter girl returned. "Two coffees." She set them down and offered his quarry a small sympathetic smile.

They sat at the table he'd chosen, and talked—well, _he_ talked. "Crandall's still pissed at me but he'll come around. The ex split for Buffalo. One of her girlfriends said the bitch has a bench warrant out for theft or something." He sipped his coffee and grimaced. "I don't know why you bother to come here, you could get better brew at the cafeteria." He pulled her books over and checked the titles. "More science? If you plan to spend your career doling out music lessons you don't have to understand the theory of relativity." He pushed the books toward her and decided to try a compliment. They usually worked to get girls talking. "You . . . um, you look nice."

Bramble took the books. For the first time in two weeks she faced him. Her gaze held anger, and a bleak resignation that came as an unwelcome surprise. "Don't lie, I already know you think I'm a freak. I just don't understand why you bothered to ask me out when . . . when . . ." Her voice faltered, stopped; she stood, grabbed her jacket and headed from the café into the rain and wind of an overcast morning. Greg watched her walk away. He'd hurt her somehow—where the hell had she gotten the idea he thought she was some kind of sideshow attraction? Something else was going on, something not of his making.

He didn't have Crandall to talk to for the moment, so Greg spent the next couple of days gathering intelligence. What he found was unsurprising, but annoyed him all the same: the ex had made it her business to suggest he hung out with Bramble on a frat-house bet to take her virginity. Now he was stuck in a difficult position. If he tried to deny the rumors, he looked twice as guilty; if he said nothing, his silence implied agreement. He would have to go straight to the innocent victim and clear things up by using his last option, but it would require finesse.

The rest of the week was taken up by necessary schoolwork and labs. He dealt with them in a welter of impatience as he plotted his next move. He'd visit her home ground, where she felt safest; there was a better than fair chance she'd reject him, but he had to try. He took Crandall's previous advice and brought some music with him, as well as his poker winnings in case she wanted dinner. He owed her after Toledo, even if she was just unintended collateral damage. She'd been handed a crapfest when she'd agreed to go out in good faith, she deserved some compensation.

Greg chose Saturday night to make his move. Nearly everyone else would be out, which would give him easier access to her room. No doubt she was curled up with a book on remedial physics or something equally boring. Some blues would liven up her evening, and his too.

When he reached her floor, it was a surprise to find Bramble in the cramped telephone booth next to the stairs. He stayed out of sight and listened to her conversation.

"Can't come home next weekend. I've got tests coming up . . . I'll see you and Dad at Thanksgiving and over Christmas vacation . . . It was nice of Doctor Worthing to call you, but everything's fine here. I'm not working too hard . . . Mom . . . can we not have this conversation? . . . I don't want . . . I want to teach. You _know_ that . . . Okay. Yeah, we'll talk about it when I come home. Okay. Yes. Love you Mom. Give my love to Dad too."

When she emerged from the booth and saw him, her expression shocked him once again. She looked almost frightened. Then she lifted her chin and brushed by him.

"Hey." He followed her. "We need to talk." She didn't reply. "I didn't start those rumors. Crandall's ex did that. I said she was an unstable bitch, but no one believed me."

They'd reached her door. She opened it, then turned to face him. There were tears in her eyes, on her cheeks. "Why don't you admit I'm just some kind of lab rat for your experiments? That's how you see people, isn't it? We're here to keep the genius from getting bored."

"I'm not a genius," he snapped. "Who told you—"

"Come on, I know who you are. I knew from the start. Greg House, the great mind. Everyone says you're headed for honors and advanced placement after med school. What do you care about—" She drew in an unsteady breath and swiped at her tears, angry little gestures that told him she hadn't planned to cry in public. "Anyway, you got what you wanted from me. Go away."

"God, you're such a prickly little shit!" He didn't know what to do, but she needed to stop leaking salt water; it was annoying as hell. "I don't think of you that way—well, not any more than I do anyone else. You're right about people being boring, I'll admit that, but you—you're—you're not that. I mean not boring. Okay?"

She sniffled and eyed him with suspicion. "I'm not?"

"No, not until right now. So cut it out. We need to talk." He offered her the albums. "I brought music."

They ended up getting Chinese delivered, at his insistence—mu shu pork for him, Szechuan chicken for her, and shared noodles between them. To his pleased surprise, she knew how to use chopsticks. "Don't be so shocked when someone besides you shows a little expertise," she said in that tart tone he'd grown to like. He threw a fortune cookie at her.

"Smartass. We need to do something about the rumors."

Bramble lifted her brows. "We do?"

"Sure." He took a few seconds to stuff a wad of pancake and pork into his mouth, chewed and swallowed.

"You don't care what people think about you, or anyone else."

"True. But we still can't let that bitch win."

Bramble shook her head. "I think she already has."

"That's defeatist talk." He searched for another pancake, annoyed he'd forgotten to order extras. "If I do something mean to someone it's on my own terms."

"I see." Something in her tone made him look over at her. She was trying not to smile, damn her.

"What?"

"Nothing. Tell me what you have in mind." She took some noodles.

"A counter attack. We launch our own rumors. But for it to work . . ." He chose a piece of pork with care. "You'd have to hang out with me for a while."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said after a brief silence.

"You're afraid to be seen with me." He didn't believe that, but it was provocative enough to get a response. Not the one he expected though.

"I think this is more about your reputation than mine."

"You're not a freak." He frowned when she laughed this time.

"Yeah, right. What was your first impression when we met? Big butt, big belly, no looks, a virgin for sure." She sipped her Coke. "Everyone else thinks the same thing. Nothing's gonna change that. But you got stuck with a bunch of rumors that say you and I screwed around even though you think I'm a total dog. So you're the one who needs to get things straightened out. My being around you would just confirm those rumors."

It was a fair assessment, but he wouldn't let her know that. "So you won't do it."

"Maybe I need convincing." She set aside her container of chicken and picked up the fortune cookie he'd thrown at her, opened the wrapper and broke the cookie. She removed the slip of paper. "'Nothing astonishes men so much as common sense and plain dealing.'"

"'—in bed.'" Greg smiled a little when she laughed. He dug around and found his own cookie. "'Let the deeds speak.'" He gave Bramble an encouraging look.

"'In bed.'" She laughed again. Her whole face lit up when she did that; he knew then she was wrong. She was beautiful in her own way, and he was the only one to see it. _Much better_. He leaned forward a bit.

"Come on, wild child. Hang out with me. If you do, eventually everyone will lose interest. And I'll . . . I'll owe you a couple of favors, if you want to look at it that way."

She studied him for a few moments, her head tilted to one side. "Let me think about it."

"No, because you'll say no." He ate the last pancake and set the rest of the pork aside. "Your mom is upset with you."

The humor faded from her expression. "None of your business."

"Sure it's my business. We can't let outside elements upset the plan." He took a long swallow of beer. "Worthing called and pushed his own agenda."

"He always does that." The bleakness had returned. Greg finished his beer and set the bottle aside, opened another one.

"He's an asshole. You need to find someone else."

"There is no one else right now. Anyway, it's just for another year after this one. After that I'll be on my own." She stirred her chicken with a chopstick. "Back to your plan."

"Our plan," he corrected her, and gave a loud belch. She rolled her eyes.

"Why do boys like being gross?"

"Why do girls think gas is gross?" He chuckled at her mock-glare. "Enough idle bullshit. Let's figure this out."

By the end of the evening they had something worked out, though he could tell Bramble wasn't completely sold. "Trust me," he said at the door. "Deal with this now and we'll avoid trouble in future." Bramble shook her head but said nothing. "Come on, it'll be fun. Besides, you owe me an exchange."

That made her fire up, as he'd expected. "No I don't! We're even."

"But you want to know more." He waggled his brows at her. "You know you do."

She rolled her eyes and looked away, but not before he caught a little flash of amusement. So the hook was set . . . and yet he didn't think of her as a fish to be caught-more like a partner in crime. The idea surprised him. He mulled it over all the way back to the frat house and came to no satisfactory conclusion, then shrugged and set it aside. Everything would work out, he'd make sure of it.

' _Focus', Hocus Pocus_


	5. Chapter 5

"We gonna play or will you just sit there?" Greg popped the top on another beer. "Show me your cards."

It was a quiet evening in the dorm common room. Beth had chosen the kitchen as their meeting place; it was almost never used, and the table was set in the corner where they could see both access doors. Tonight was dedicated to poker basics, at least officially. She had a strong suspicion the details of the grand plan would be outlined at some point, when Greg felt like divulging them. He'd make her work for it though, she knew that much by now. So she looked at Greg over her Coke and said what he expected her to say, although she didn't really want to spar with him. "No."

"How will you learn how to play unless I see 'em? Your cards, I mean." He drummed his fingers on the tabletop in time to the music coming from the kitchen radio. "This isn't animal rummy or crazy eights. You could lose a lot of money if you don't know what you're doing."

"Like you care. I'd be losing it to you." She glanced at the cards. "Show me yours, I'll show you mine." The double meaning hit right after she said it, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. Greg chuckled.

"Your face!" He took a long swallow of beer. "Let me see your cards or we'll be here all night while you try to figure out what to play." He paused. "Speaking of equal exchanges, you owe me one."

Beth glanced up at him in surprise. "No I _don't_!"

"I say you do." Greg offered her a mock-stern expression. "Time for some _quid pro quo_."

"You already know what I told you."

He nodded. "True. But I don't know who did it."

Her breath caught in her throat. She said nothing, just stared at her cards as she fought sudden panic. _No one can know._ _Ever_ _._

"Take your glasses off." When she looked up at him, he made an impatient gesture. "Reflection. Everyone can see what you've got, including me."

Her blush intensified, but she did as he ordered. He looked her over, a lengthy perusal that made her uncomfortable. "You hide behind those things," he announced. "Get contacts."

She shook her head. "Insurance would never cover it."

He finished off his beer and went to the fridge to get more. "Play the king. So who did it?"

Beth slapped down her cards. "Stop asking. Aren't we supposed to talk about this plan of yours?"

"All in good time. Play. The. King." Greg plunked into his chair, tipped it back as he opened the fresh beer, and studied her. "It's someone important or you wouldn't be so reluctant." When she got to her feet he flapped a hand at her. "Sit down. It's not like I'm gonna tell anyone else."

She resumed her seat, struggling not to flee. "I'm asking you to stop."

"Yeah, but see, if you tell me then I have to tell you something in return." He gave her a slight smile. "Admit it. You want to know more about me. A lot more."

Beth shook her head. Despite her fear she couldn't help but feel amused at his attempt to charm her. "You're a complete egomaniac."

"Aw, now I'm all hurt." He leaned forward to gather up her cards. "Let's try again." He shuffled with the ease of long practice and dealt the hand, tossed her two cards and took two for himself. "Now figure it out and get things started."

"You still haven't told me what you want to do," she prompted after losing two hands.

"Later. You're not taking any chances." Greg shot Beth a steely stare. "Playing it safe won't win you anything. For the plan to work you need to step out a little."

"Easy for you to say. You can count cards and have a bigger money stash to work with." Beth sipped her Coke.

"Who told you I count cards?" He sounded intrigued.

"The evidence of my own eyes," she snapped. "You're not the only one who can observe other people, you know."

He inclined his head. "True. But I won that money by risking what I had. You either commit to some risk or you don't play, there's no in between."

"If you want to tell me what you have planned, I'm listening," she said after a few minutes.

Greg exhaled loudly. "You're persistent, I'll give you that."

"I need to be ready for whatever happens."

He glowered at her. "That's ridiculous. You can't anticpate everything. Life doesn't work that way."

"Yeah, I know." She lowered her gaze to her cards. "But you can be prepared ahead of time to some extent. It's—it's a good idea."

Silence fell. When she dared to look up again, she found Greg watching her with an impassive expression, his blue eyes bright. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, so she took refuge in provocation. "Play your stupid cards already and tell me what you want to do."

One corner of his mouth quirked up, and her heart gave a funny little flop. "Bossyboots." He dumped his hand on the table, grabbed hers and tossed them into the pile. "Be my girlfriend."

Beth blinked. "Wh—what?"

"Be my girlfriend. You know. Going out on dates and all that." She stared at him, bereft of words. He shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"How—how long?" She forced the words past a throat gone dry. _Maybe it's not a big deal for you, but it is for me. I can't do this_.

"As long as it takes." He picked up the cards and began to shuffle.

"That makes no sense. You'd be better off to just leave me alone. The longer we're together, the more people will think you've—you've got a big bet going you don't want to lose." Sudden indignation replaced apprehension. "And they'll think I'm an idiot."

"They already think that, so it doesn't make any difference." He didn't look at her. "Come on, do it. Take a chance."

She opened her mouth to tell him off, to let him know he was an arrogant jerk who seemed intent on messing up her life and no way would she agree to this. "Okay," she heard herself say. Greg shot her a glance as he shuffled the cards.

"I thought you were gonna say no." He smiled then, and her heart did that funny little flip again.

It was late by the time they stopped. Greg insisted on escorting her to her door. "You never know who might be lurking in the stairwells."

"I'm not gonna tell you who did it." Beth moved ahead of him. "I'm fine. Go back to the frat house."

"You're still on that whole 'I don't want to be seen with him' thing. You'll have to give that up now, you know." There was a strange note in Greg's voice. Beth hesitated and turned to look at him, to find he was trying not to laugh. Her blush returned full force. Without another word she sprinted to the landing, to find him right beside her. _Damn those long legs_.

"And I keep telling you, it's more like you shouldn't be seen with me. This is a bad idea. Just—just forget it." She reached for the door, to have her hand taken in a firm clasp. Greg faced her, the humor gone from his expression. He looked down at her for a few moments. Then he let go, gently turned her around and gave her a little push.

"Be at the house by seven tomorrow." And he was gone.

When she reached her room, she found someone had covered her door with white paper streamers and a crude image of a wedding cake drawn on her message board, with a sentence beneath it: '19 and never been _?' . Beth closed her eyes for a moment, glad Greg hadn't come up with her. She fought the wild impulse to run down the hall, bang on peoples doors, make them listen to her as she told them her experience.

 _If you ever were crazy enough to do something like that, they'd reject you even more. No one wants to hear about the bad stuff. They'd just blame you for whatever happened anyway._ Beth pushed away the pain deep within as she erased the board and took down the streamers, then unlocked her door and prayed they hadn't pranked her further. Once she'd come back to a room stuffed with crumpled newspapers and water balloons; it had taken hours to get everything cleaned up.

She didn't bother to go out for dinner. The dining hall was long since closed anyway, and she was broke for the rest of the month. Instead she finished off a flat Coke and some leftover pizza while she studied a couple of chapters in her biology text. It was almost midnight by the time she crawled into bed, but sleep eluded her. She worried about the invitation to the Friday night poker game. Asking her to play would be like throwing bait to sharks. And it was a house full of young guys, who would inevitably pass judgment on her as Greg's experiment with an unattractive girl. Even the thought of it made her so anxious she finally gave up and turned on the light, to read into the small hours.

The next day she skipped her early-morning biology class—the first time she'd ever done such a thing—and slept in. It felt odd to lie in bed when the sun was up and she knew classes were on, but it was enjoyable too, in a guilty sort of way.

Eventually she showered and dressed, packed up her stuff, then took the bus to the main campus and the undergrad library, to make up for her playing hooky by studying. She stayed there most of the day, with a break for a late lunch at the Union. Afterward she went back to north campus and her practice room, hauled out books of etudes and current performance pieces assigned to her, and set to work. Most people would be out partying or gone for the weekend, so she'd probably have the place to herself. She could stay down here all evening if she wanted to. Part of her did, part of her didn't; caution sided with prudence. She settled in and got to work.

By the time the lights flickered to let students know the building was about to close up for the night, she was exhausted and sore but felt better in her mind and heart. She packed up her gear and headed across campus to the dorm, shivering in the cold night air. There was a smell of snow in the chilly breeze; they might have flurries over the next day or so. Halloween was just around the corner, and then the holidays. _Three more semesters and I'm free. I can do this_. The knowledge felt good.

She stopped in the hall to pick up her mail and found a card from home. Her birthday was still a week ahead, but she knew Mom had sent it early because it held a check to tide her over until the holiday break. She hated accepting money from her parents, but her summer work at the ice cream parlor and then the ag station hadn't paid much. She would take what was offered and be grateful she had good parents who cared about her. Some of the girls here weren't as fortunate; she'd overheard scraps of conversation that had saddened her, even if they did come from the ones who had mocked her in the past.

When she reached her door, she found a one-word message on the board.

 _coward_

She knew that bold upright hand. The accusation hurt, and yet it was the truth. She dug out her keys and let herself in, but didn't clear the board. He probably wouldn't bother with her again now, and that was best for both of them. She'd let his verdict stand.

It was too late to eat, and she didn't feel like going downstairs to the common room to watch tv. Instead she put everything away, set up her desk for study the next day, and got ready for bed. But as tired as she was, sleep once again eluded her. She tossed and turned and eventually ended up with her chair by the window. She stared out into shadows and light, and wondered what Greg was doing. No doubt he was at the game, raking in money and drinking too much beer. She wanted to be there, sitting next to him. "You're pathetic," she muttered, and rubbed tired eyes. To feel this way about someone who considered her little more than some weird puzzle to be solved . . . he wanted to pretend she was his, but she wanted to be the real thing—something he'd never agree to in a thousand years. She sighed softly, got up and moved the chair to her desk. If she couldn't sleep, she was better off studying.

It was close to two a.m. when she gave up, closed her books and turned off the light. She was about to undress for bed when someone knocked at her door.

"Beth?" It was Dylan. She considered not answering, then gave in. When she opened the door he looked her over.

"Are you okay?"

"What are you doing here?"

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "I, uh—I saw your light was on and thought I'd stop by and make sure you're all right."

"At two a.m.?" She folded her arms. "Greg sent you."

"No he didn't. I was just worried!" The genuine indignation in his voice made her smile a little. Dylan paused. "Okay, that's better. You looked . . ." He hesitated. "Come by tomorrow. There's leftover pizza."

"How about you bring everything over here, and we'll go down to the common room and watch tv."

His face brightened. "Yeah. _Doctor Strangelove_ will be on tomorrow night, we can watch that if you want to." He gestured at her message board. "That's—that's not true, you know."

"I kinda think it is." Beth was surprised to hear herself say it out loud.

"No way." Dylan's expression softened. "I know it's not." He moved back from the door. "Okay. See you tomorrow. Come over around six."

"Okay." On impulse she stepped forward and kissed his cheek. "Thank you, Dylan." She hated the blush she could feel rising as she spoke. He looked down at her in surprise, and then smiled.

"You're welcome," he said quietly, and left her there. She watched him stride down the hallway and wished she'd fallen for him instead of Greg. Dylan was a good friend, and a decent person too.

 _But that's not how it works_. She stood there for a moment, then went inside and shut the door.

' _Love Stinks,' J Geils Band_


	6. Chapter 6

_(Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing, it's much appreciated. -B)_

Greg let his thoughts drift as he watched a grad student labor through the steps of the current lecture. The letter from the disciplinary committee sat in his back pocket. He'd read it once. Johns Hopkins had decided to kick him out for good despite his repeating his final year of med school with an exemplary GPA. He'd have to go somewhere else for his internship—but where? He didn't want to stay here . . . He stretched his legs and heard a faint crackle from the envelope in his back pocket. On impulse he stood, grabbed his jacket and left the lecture. He had other matters to deal with.

It was easy enough to track down Bramble. He found her at the undergrad library, tucked into a quiet corner with the usual stack of textbooks, her backpack and violin. When he took the seat opposite her he could see she looked tired. Her glasses lay next to one of the books. She glanced up at him. Her eyes widened a little. In the soft light they were dark blue. Then she looked away, her expression impassive. He took her notebook and scanned the contents. Her notes were neat, precise, meticulous. "I don't know why you bother studying. None of this helps you." He tossed the notebook back to her.

"Because I'm that dense, right?"

"I'm beginning to wonder." He glared at her. "Someone told you to do this. You don't need it."

"Yeah, actually I do." She put the notebook next to her biology text. "What do you want?" Her neutral tone told him they were back at square one. The knowledge annoyed him.

"Missed you last Friday."

"I had to practice."

Greg leaned forward. "You chickened out. I want to know why."

She put on her glasses and began to stow her things away. "Maybe I didn't feel like being interrogated by you and mocked by a bunch of frat boys."

"You were invited to play poker."

"You wanted to find out—" She stopped as her gaze moved past him. A moment later someone came up to the table—a young woman with long dark hair and pale blue eyes, her figure shown to best advantage in a low-cut red sweater and snug black jeans. She glanced at Bramble and nodded.

"Hi Beth." She smiled at Greg. "House."

"Cuddy." He felt a familiar tug of sexual attraction. "You're up early."

"Just finished a lab." She gave him a slow appraisal. "I'm surprised you even know where the UGLY is."

"I like books. I just like sleeping in more."

"And yet you're here." She raised her brows.

"I have my reasons." He glanced at Bramble, to find she was on her feet. She said nothing, just slung her backpack over her shoulder, picked up her case and left the table. Greg watched her walk away.

"She's weird." Cuddy took Bramble's chair. Greg focused on her.

"Define 'weird'."

"No friends, no sense of humor, no nothing. Someone said she tried to kill herself a few years ago. She's got a scar or something." Cuddy tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and sent him a speculative look. "Rumor's going around you two are an item."

"And you care because . . ." Greg tilted his head a bit. "This should be entertaining."

"You're curious, so I'm curious. You speed-read people—thirty seconds and you know everything about them. But you're still hanging around her." Cuddy leaned forward. "What's up? What do you know that no one else knows?"

 _Putting her girls on display_ , Greg thought. _Enjoyable, if predictable._ Aloud he said "It amuses me to keep her around."

"Oh, so I'm not amusing?" She mock-pouted at him, her eyes gleaming with laughter, and something else.

"Give me a reason to think otherwise."

She did her best. While she flirted with him, Greg thought about Bramble. She'd backed off the moment he'd asked who had raped her. For her to be that frightened, it had to be someone in her immediate circle . . . He drew a deep breath and frowned as the truth sank in. Stupid that he hadn't seen it from the start.

"What is it?" Cuddy paused and looked uncertain. He didn't bother to answer as he left her behind.

When he reached Bramble's room, it was to find his comment still in place on her message board. Greg studied it for a moment, then banged on her door. "You forgot one of your textbooks!" he yelled. "I brought it over for you! You can't be without your—"

The door was wrenched open, but only a few inches. A hand emerged, palm up. Greg ignored it. "You have to identify it first."

"No I don't." She sounded angry and worse, upset. "Just give it to me."

He took her hand in his and used her surprise to ease the door open. She tried to pull away, but he kept hold of her and slipped into her room. It was a mistake—for a moment she was scared of him; he saw the fear and felt a surprising surge of rage against whoever had put it there. "Hey . . ." He kept his voice soft, gentle. "It's just me."

Bramble yanked her hand free. "I know it's you. There's no book, is there?"

"You wouldn't have talked to me otherwise." He looked her over. "I have one question. Answer it and I'll leave you alone."

"No you won't." When he remained silent, she sighed. "Shut the door first. Then ask."

Greg pushed the door closed. "This is gonna sink your reputation as a loner, you know." He studied her. "Why are you still working with the man who raped you?"

The color drained from her face; he saw fear once more, followed by resignation. She lowered her gaze. Silence fell; he waited for her to answer him. When she did speak at last he could barely hear her.

"So now you know. You got what you wanted after all. Get out."

"No, because you haven't answered my question." He pushed the desk chair toward her. "Sit down before you fall down."

She stayed where she was. "I heard you and Lisa talking. She's right about me, you know. So are you." When she looked up Greg expected tears, but there were none. "I have three more semesters to get through. That means I have to do my best. After graduation there should be some choices available. Until then—"

"Your teacher _raped_ you!"

"I know what he did." Her voice held no emotion. "This should give everyone a good laugh at the frat house."

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself and ask me your question!" He hadn't meant to snap at her, but the deep pain in her words touched him. He wanted to comfort her and didn't know how, or even if he should.

"What's the point? You won't tell me anything worth knowing. You'll—you'll go on to your internship and breeze through it like you do everything else."

Greg dug in his back pocket and hauled out the letter. He shoved it in her general direction. "Read it." He hadn't meant to do that, but her honesty compelled him to reciprocate.

After a moment she took it, extracted the single page, unfolded it. It didn't take her long to reach the critical paragraph. When she looked up at him, her expression was one of genuine shock. " _You?_ Cheating on a test? _Why?_ "

He gestured at the chair. "Sit." When she did as he asked, he perched on her bed. "This thing's hard as a rock. You put two people on here, they'll both end up with herniated discs." He gave her an innocent look. "What was the question again?"

Bramble handed back the letter. "I asked why you cheated."

"Oh yeah." He crammed it in his pocket. "I just felt like it."

There was a brief silence. "There's more than that." She held his gaze with a steady, intent look. To Greg's surprise there was neither condemnation nor judgment there. "What happened?"

"This constitutes my answer to your exchange, so we're even now."

She made an impatient gesture. "Yeah, okay. What _happened_?"

"You first." He watched her closely. She took a slow, deep breath, let it out. After a few moments she spoke.

"It was five years ago at summer camp, my first time there." Her tone was low, steady, even. "I was practicing in one of the indoor rooms in the lodge because it was raining. My teacher came in. He was on the staff, so it wasn't unusual for him to be around. I thought . . . I thought he wanted to give me some help. He locked the door . . ." She paused. "Then he said it was time for me to pay for all the hard work he'd put into my career."

"There's more," Greg prompted when she fell silent.

"After . . . after it was over, he told me I couldn't tell anyone. No one would believe me and he'd dump me as a student. I couldn't—couldn't let that happen—"

" _Jesus!_ Why the fuck not?!"

"Because my parents both work hard to pay for everything! My instrument, the lessons, travel to and from town, my tuition here, all of it! If I went to them with that—" She looked down. "It would destroy them."

"And you'd lose it all." He had to say it. She lifted her gaze to his.

"That wouldn't matter. I'd find another way. This is just a means to an end. But I won't rip my parents to shreds because of something no one can change or fix. That's my choice." She sat back a bit. "Your turn."

Greg took cigarettes and lighter from his pocket, lit up and kept an eye on Bramble. She didn't object, just waited. He drew in deeply, exhaled a cloud of smoke and stretched out on his side atop her bed. It actually wasn't that bad, even if his feet did hang over the end by a substantial amount. "I had the means and the opportunity, so . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"But you've probably had both of those in nearly every class you've taken. You got caught cheating at the end of your last year of medical school, from what the letter says. Why'd you wait until then?"

He'd asked himself that question a hundred times and still had no clear answer. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." Bramble said nothing. "No, seriously."

"I was honest with you." She folded her arms.

"That's your problem."

"No, it's yours. _Quid pro quo_ , you said it yourself."

"You don't know what that means." Greg took another hit and crushed out the cigarette on the windowsill.

"You're right. I had to look it up. Now I know." She lifted her chin, a mannerism he'd seen with her before and found he liked. "So _tell_ me. Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know." The words slipped out before he could stop them. "That's . . . whatever it is. I just did it."

"Were you afraid of graduating?"

He shook his head. "I want out of this too." He glanced around the room. "No beer, I take it."

She shook her head. "Nope. I can run down to the vending machines if you want."

"No, forget it." He looked at her. "I just . . . I had to do it."

After a moment she nodded. "I get it."

"You do?" His surprise was genuine. She laughed a little. He was reminded again that he liked her laugh—it was spontaneous, infectious. For a moment he caught a glimpse of who she should have been.

"Yeah I do, G-man."

"Don't call me that. It's Crandall's stupid nickname." He looked away. "I won't say anything."

"Me neither." She stood. "Let's get a beer and a burrito at El Chapulin. My treat."

"How do you know about that place? Anyway, hope you have a fake ID." He got to his feet and made a show of rubbing his ass. "Get a new bed."

"I'll have something non-alcoholic. And no one sleeps in that thing but me anyway, so it doesn't matter." She extracted a wallet from her backpack and tucked it in her pocket. As she opened the door he came up to her and peeked into the hallway. There were a few people around. He bent down and brushed a kiss over her cheek. She went still, but not in fear this time. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and he was pleased to see another blush start. He gave her a quick wink. She glanced out the open door, then looked back at him. Uncertainty gave way to a sort of wry acknowledgment. Without another word she pushed the door open and stepped into the hall next to him. It only took her a moment to lock up; then they started on their way, engrossed in an amiable argument over who made better tacos close to campus.

' _A Message to You Rudy,' the Specials_


	7. Chapter 7

Beth banged on the back door, then pushed with her shoulder as she opened it. Over the last couple of months she'd learned it tended to stick in cold weather. After a brief struggle she emerged into the kitchen, where the frat house's Friday night poker game was held. She smiled a little at the familiar sound of a local rock station on the living room stereo. It was early evening, so almost no one was around. The usual crowd would show up a bit later. She liked to come in before the house was crammed full of people; she could hang out and be part of the scenery that way, less noticeable and not as likely to be teased.

"Hey, wild child!" Dylan was already settled into his usual place at the big table. He grinned and patted the chair next to him. "Have a seat while I get ready to take your money."

Beth pulled off her hat as she moved around the table. "You won't win much." She pushed her braid over her shoulder and began to unbutton her coat. "Did you order the pizza yet?"

"Don't worry, I got you half a veggie pie." Dylan sipped his beer. "Coke's in the fridge."

She draped her coat over the back of her chair and stuffed the hat in a pocket. "Thanks."

"How'd the recital go?"

Beth opened the refrigerator and extracted a can. "Not bad." She took her seat next to Dylan. "It's over with, that's the good part."

"Yeah, true." Dylan put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Hang in there. One more year."

Beth hid a wince and took a long swallow of Coke before she spoke. "Yeah. Who's coming tonight?"

"The usual gang of suspects. Greg's gonna be a little late. He's got a meeting with someone from another school."

Her heart lurched. "Oh . . . okay. Hope—hope it goes well."

Dylan said nothing, but he gave her a little squeeze. "Me too."

The regular attendees showed up over the next hour or so. The music got louder, and a pungent reek of pot competed with the ever-present fug of tobacco smoke. Beth ignored it; she'd gotten used to both and barely noticed them anymore.

Soon enough all the chairs at the table held occupants, and the game was in full swing. Dylan kept up a desultory conversation, but no one else said much; their focus was on the cards. Beth had grown to enjoy the strategy involved. It was a bit like interpreting a piece of music. The basic directions were there, but the true expression lay in the hands and heart of the musician. She'd gotten good at this, and despite her disclaimer to Dylan she had a nice pile of winnings tucked away in an old cookie-tin bank she kept in a desk drawer. Still, while she looked over her hand and glanced at her fellow players, a part of her thought of Greg and wondered what he would decide.

"Full house," Dylan announced, and slapped his cards on the table. "Read 'em and weep, suckers."

A chorus of groans went up. Beth glanced at her hand and realized she could beat him, but her heart wasn't in it. She gave her cards to the dealer and stood. "Be right back," she said quietly to Dylan, and made her escape.

By some miracle there wasn't a line for the bathroom. Beth ducked inside and locked the door, then surveyed the facilities. The housekeeper was hard-pressed to keep up with the guys, but it was clear she'd been in sometime earlier in the day, as floor, toilet and sink were clean and several rolls of toilet paper sat atop the tank. She eased the pressure on her full bladder and tried not to think of the meeting going on somewhere in the main quad.

When she returned to the table, she found several regulars had shown up. Greg was in her seat with cards, a plateful of pizza and a beer. He glanced up at her, then away. In that moment she knew what he'd decided. Her heart plummeted into her shoes. Because it was expected of her, she put on a stern expression. "Out."

"Uh uh. Possession is nine-tenths." He tipped the chair back and made a show of studying his hand. Beth moved behind him and shoved the chair forward. " _Fuck!_ "

"Out," she said again, and wondered how she would get through an entire evening of play-acting. As she sat down Greg put a chair between her place and the guy on her right, and settled in close enough to knock his elbow against hers. If she said anything or protested, he'd interrogate her in front of everyone until she broke down.

So she took her spot and looked at the dealer, who glanced at Greg. "Hey!" She snapped out the word and felt Dylan jump. "I don't need his permission! Deal!"

Soon enough the game was underway. Beth knew she had no chance of hiding her hand from Greg, so she didn't bother. At this point she wasn't worried about winning anything, she just wanted to make her escape when she could. Gradually the noise level crept up again, for which she was grateful. She avoided Greg's eye and considered her hand.

"Heard you had a recital tonight." Greg didn't bother to keep his voice down. Beth nodded. "Aaannnd . . . ?"

"It went okay." She looked up from her cards in time to find Lisa Cuddy in the doorway watching them. She offered Beth a tentative smile; it seemed genuine, something of a surprise. Beth felt a surge of some strong emotion deep within. To her astonishment, it was jealousy. Somehow she managed a nod in response. Lisa turned away. In her peripheral vision Beth saw Greg give her retreating figure an appraising stare.

 _Sooner or later he'll sleep with her, if he hasn't already._ The certainty sat inside her like a stone. She hated it, even as she acknowledged she had no right whatsoever to feel jealous. They'd been acting parts all these months, after all. Greg was no more her boyfriend than any of the frat guys, and they considered her some kind of mascot. No doubt Lisa did too by now—not a threat, more like a bad joke.

 _Maybe that's what I'll always be._ She pushed the thought away as inexcusable self-pity and tried to concentrate on the game.

"Raise." Dylan threw in a handful of chips. Beth glanced at her cards.

"Fold." She dumped them on the table and finished off her Coke. Another half hour and she could make her excuses . . . She paused as Greg turned over her cards. He shot her a keen look. She ignored him and picked up a half-eaten slice of pizza. She didn't really want it, but it was something to do.

"Feeling magnanimous after your big display of superior technique? The musical kind, I mean." Greg's tone was mocking. Beth flinched. She put down the slice.

"It was just a recital. All students have to do one every semester."

"So modest."

She made herself look at Greg. He stared back at her, his gaze hard and bright. He wanted her to react, to fight with him. _So he can go to Lisa with a clear conscience. He's decided he's done with me._ On a stab of pain she lifted her chin.

"I'm not bad, but there are plenty of better musicians on this campus. Including you."

That surprised him; she saw his eyelids flicker before he spoke. "Gee honey, I didn't know you cared so much."

To storm out would only give Greg the satisfaction of knowing he'd needled her into leaving. When the dealer announced the new round and raised a brow at her she nodded and took the cards he dealt, checked them over, and ignored Greg.

"You know it's interesting. I had a bad lock on my gym locker. It took two clubs to break it open." Greg gave a loud stage cough. "It was really a shame because I had an Ace brand spade in it."

Several of the guys at the table laughed. Beth paid him no mind. She looked over the community cards and realized it was a hopeless case, she had nothing decent and anyway, they all knew her hand. She tossed the cards at the dealer. "Deal me two please."

"Play what you've got." Greg took the cards before she could get to them. So now he planned to push her into leaving. All her resolve to stay evaporated as humiliation and anger filled her. She had no desire to give everyone at the table any more fodder for gossip, or allow Greg further ammunition; he'd get what he wanted whatever she did or said. Enough was enough—if he wanted out of his plan, so be it. She rose, grabbed her coat and left the kitchen. Dylan said something as she passed him but she didn't hear his words, too set on leaving to pay attention to anything else.

She was halfway to the bus stop when Greg said behind her "What's your problem?"

Beth didn't turn around. "I don't have one."

"Meaning I do." He caught up with her. "Stop pouting and tell me."

"I'm not pouting!" She hated how pissy she sounded. "Go back to the game. And Lisa." The last two words slipped out before she could stop them. For a moment a memory filled her mind: Greg in her room, lounging on the bed with a smoke while she worked on bowings and fingerings for an orchestral piece, the two of them just talking, late afternoon sun slanting through the window . . . She pushed it away and faced reality.

"Oh, come on-don't tell me you're _jealous!_ " He sounded exasperated now.

"What do you care? Have a great time. See you around."

Greg moved in front of her. "Bramble." He sounded strange now. Beth refused to look at him. "The past few months—it was just part of the plan."

She stared at the sidewalk. "You don't have to bother explaining something I already know. You—you're leaving in a few days anyway, so it all works out."

"I haven't said—"

"I've told you before, stop acting like you're the only smart person in the room!" she snapped, and was offended when he began to chuckle. She moved forward and found him in front of her, almost touching. Fear shot through her as she remembered another time when a man had done much the same thing. She took a step back.

"It's just me." Now Greg sounded annoyed. Beth felt anger flare again, but just as quickly fade.

"I know. You don't have to stay. Good luck where—wherever it is you're going."

"Boston." He paused. "We probably won't see each other again." That strange tone was back. She nodded, unwilling to speak because she didn't trust her voice to be steady. "Let's do one last exchange." He hesitated again. "I'll go first."

That surprised her, as it was probably meant to do. "Okay." She shivered, but not just from the cold.

" _Look_ at me." Now he sounded almost hostile. When she lifted her gaze, he wore an odd expression—not quite anger, not quite guilt. He fidgeted for a few moments. "My dad's not my dad."

Shock coursed through her. Without thinking she took a step closer to him, motivated by some ridiculous urge to offer comfort. "Who—who told you?"

"No one. I figured it out on my own." The subtle misery hidden in the harsh tone broke her heart. On impulse she reached out and took his hand in hers. His fingers were cold, and she realized for the first time he'd come after her without a coat. At her touch he tensed, then clasped her hand in a firm grip that trembled. "Your turn."

She only had one thing she could offer. He would reject it, but she gave it anyway. "I love you."

His hold tightened a bit. He said nothing for what felt like forever. At last he said softly "You're a moron. You heard what I just told you."

"I don't care." Beth kept her gaze steady. "That's not your fault. Anyway, it doesn't make any difference. You're still you."

He stared down at her. When he let go she readied herself to see him walk away for the last time. Instead he put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him, bent down and kissed her. She felt his lips on hers, soft and almost tentative. With a sort of desperation born out of old fear she dared to kiss him back. He tasted of beer and a hint of spicy tomato sauce, and himself; his touch was almost tender, completely unlike her single other experience.

When the kiss ended he kept his face close to hers. She felt him shiver. "You're cold," she touched his cheek.

"Beth . . . I can't." He caressed her gently. "I won't."

It hurt, but she knew he hadn't meant for his words to wound her. Besides, what else could he say? "I know." She put her hand to his chest, above his heart. "It's okay." She summoned up her courage. "You should go back now . . ." Her words faltered for a moment. "Thanks for helping me, and for keeping my secrets. I'll keep yours."

He nodded, his gaze steady; he kissed her again, a tender little buss on the lips. "I'll remember you." And with that he was gone, striding across the quad. Beth watched him go until he disappeared into the shadows. Then she turned and headed for her room, where she could crawl into bed and cry as much as she liked, and no one would hear her.

A few days later she got a visit from Dylan. "Haven't seen you much—" He stopped and looked uncomfortable. Beth took pity on him.

"Thanks for coming by." She gave him a hug, which he returned with a sweet awkwardness that touched her heart.

"Why do women always go for nimrods like House?" He gave her a little squeeze and moved back a bit. "I'm a good guy, you know."

"Yeah, I know." She gave him a slight smile. "You'll find somebody, Dylan."

"Sure." He sighed and dug in a pocket, brought out a cassette tape case. "I found this on the table yesterday. It has your name on it." He reached out, gave her braid a gentle tug. "Don't be a stranger, okay? I need to win my money back, wild child."

When he'd gone, Beth went up to her room and opened the case. Inside was a tape with no notation. She stared down at it. It had to be from Greg, no one else would have left it.

After a few minutes of indecision she went to her stereo and popped the tape into the player, hit 'play' and sat down. She had no idea what to expect. There was a faint hiss of leader tape . . . and then music.

 _My friends wonder why I call you all the time_

 _What can I say_

 _I don't feel the need to give such secrets away_

 _You think maybe I need help, no, I know I'm right, all right_

 _I'm just better off not listening to friends advice_

 _When they insist on knowing my bliss_

 _I tell them this_

 _When they want to know what the reason is_

 _I only smile when I lie, then I tell them why_

 _because your kiss is on my list . . ._

Beth sat listening, eyes closed. It was easier to see Greg's face that way—his blue eyes bright and searching, a little smile on his lips. Of course this choice of song held a double meaning—he was teasing her for her love of decidedly non-classical music. But he meant the words too, she knew it as surely as if he'd said them to her face.

 _I go crazy wondering what there is to really see_

 _Did the night just take up your time, 'cause it means more to me_

 _Sometimes I forget what I'm doing, I don't forget what I want, what I want_

 _Regret what I've done, regret you, I couldn't go on_

 _But if you insist on knowing my bliss_

 _I'll tell you this_

 _If you want to know what the reason is_

 _I'll only smile when I lie, then I'll tell you why . . ._

 _Because your kiss is on my list_

 _Because your kiss is on my list of the best things in life_ …

When the song ended she realized her face was wet. The ache in her heart hurt, true. Still, she was glad it was there. She'd never thought she'd feel anything like it after what had happened a few years ago.

"I owe you another exchange," she said aloud. "Maybe . . . maybe someday I'll be able to tell you."

She let the tape play out and listened to Greg's final gift of music for her, a gift both of them shared and loved equally.

' _One Summer Dream,' Electric Light Orchestra_

' _Your Kiss Is On My List', Hall & Oates_


	8. Chapter 8

_Forty years later . . ._

Beth settled into her easy chair with a sigh. It was a cool rainy night, typical for New Orleans at this time of year. Her joints protested the damp, as they always did. It was warm in the living room though, and she was comfortable in general; good enough to go on. She'd cleaned house and her other chores were done, so her weekend was free. If the weather cleared she'd go to the market in the morning and bring back some groceries.

She'd just picked up the tv remote when someone knocked at the front door. Her takeout order was a bit early for once—unusual for a Friday evening, but that was fine by her. She levered out of the chair. "Hang on, I'm coming!" On the way she took a generous amount of tip money from the petty-cash jar in the kitchen. Whoever was out on delivery tonight deserved a few extra bucks.

The knock sounded again as she reached for the handle. "Yeah yeah, just a minute!" When she opened the door, whatever she'd been about to say died on her lips.

He stood there in the bright gleam of the porch light, a backpack slung over his shoulder. His jacket was soaked through, hair plastered to his skull, two weeks growth of beard, and he was so thin he was nearly insubstantial . . . but she knew him. Though much had changed, his gaze hadn't. It was pinned to her, defiant and yet almost pleading.

" _Greg,_ " she said softly, stunned to her core. Then she gathered her scattered thoughts and did the only thing that made sense-she opened the door wider and stood aside. He didn't respond for a few moments. When he finally entered her home, she got the second shock of the evening. He moved with a slow, hard limp, aided by a cane that had seen better days. She remembered him running across the quad, long legs pumping, and swallowed on a sudden lump in her throat.

 _What_ _happened_ _?_ It was a question she knew she couldn't ask, not now anyway. Without another word she guided him into the living room and took his jacket. He shivered, clearly chilled through; he smelled as if he hadn't cleaned up in a while. Beth eased him into the recliner and took the comforter from the back of the couch, draped it over him. "I'll get you some coffee," she said quietly, and went to the kitchen to make a pot. When she returned she offered him a mugful diluted with plenty of sugar and some milk. He folded back the quilt, took the mug and held it in both hands as he sipped.

"Thanks." His voice was rough and deep, but it held an echo of the young man she remembered. There was a knock at the door and he glanced up at her. She struggled with a powerful sense of disbelief at the sight of him sitting there. "You've got company."

"Dinner delivery. I'll be right back."

She created a buffet of sorts on the coffee table and brought in a tv tray for Greg's use, along with a plate. "There are enough sandwiches and sides here for two people, so take what you want."

Greg stared at her. "So that's it. No questions, just invite me in for coffee and supper after forty years of silence."

Beth unfolded her napkin and hoped he wouldn't see her hands shaking. "Eat first, questions later." That earned her a reluctant, rusty chuckle.

She let him choose first and put the tv on local news. He ate an enormous pile of food in the time it took her to get through half of her sandwich. When he was done he sat back on a sigh and brought up the quilt. Within a minute or two he was asleep. Beth watched him as she held her po'boy. She was tempted to pinch herself; the situation was utterly surreal, to say the very least. This could be some strange waking dream she was having in her chair . . . A low snore shook her out of that idea. She studied the sleeping figure while she ate the last of her dinner. It was clear he was worn to the bone; she couldn't turn him back out into a rainy night. Intuition warned her he'd been close to some sort of desperate decision before he turned up here; she understood that frame of mind all too well. At least she could offer him some help, if he wanted to accept it.

When she was done she rose and went over to the other side of the house, to return a bit later later and find Greg still asleep. She stopped next to the recliner and with some hesitation, put a gentle hand on his shoulder. He jerked awake and winced. "Wilson—"

"No, it's Beth—Bramble." She remembered he liked to use last names. "You can't sleep in the chair. Come with me."

Slowly he sat up. It was clear he was in pain but he said nothing, only took his cane, got to his feet and followed her. When they reached the connecting doorway, he stopped. "Two houses."

"It's a double shotgun. I bought it thinking I'd knock out the middle wall and make it one place, but it's proved pretty useful for guests so I left it alone." She offered him a slight smile. "It's a bed for the night, anyway."

He leaned on his cane and glared at her. "You don't know what I've been up to since we last saw each other. I could be a murderer on the run, a bank robber, anything. And here you are offering me your guest house."

Beth tilted her head a bit and surveyed him. "Do you have clean clothes in your backpack? I can wash up what you have on, and your jacket."

"Oh, great. You don't think I'm capable of doing any of what I just told you." Under the exhaustion he looked offended. "I'm tempted to go out and knock off a gas station just to prove I can."

She couldn't help but smile. Clearly some things hadn't changed. "Come on, let me show you around."

Once he was in the shower she put his backpack on the bed, hesitated, then opened it. There were extra clothes, wadded up and in dire need of a wash. She dug around and found a tee shirt and what looked to be a pair of flannel bottoms at the bottom of the pile, both folded and reasonably clean, and left them out for use. The rest she took with her to her side of the house. She'd wash everything in the morning. After that she made one last trip to leave a carafe of water, a glass and a plateful of cookies. There'd been several bottles of meds in one of the backpack's pockets; he might need to take them with food.

It was the work of a few minutes to put away the remnants of the takeout, stack the plates and silverware in the dishwasher, and head off to bed. But once she was snuggled in under the quilt, Beth found she couldn't settle. To have Greg of all people show up at her doorstep on an ordinary weeknight, years after he'd left her with a kiss . . . Months ago she'd seen a news report stating he'd been killed in some sort of explosion—and now here he was, alive enough to eat most of her takeout and claim her extra bed. Somehow it was exactly what she should expect from him, and yet she wasn't sure how she should feel at all. She'd always thought she'd never see him again.

 _What the hell happened to him? He looks like ten miles of bad road._ And that name he'd mentioned . . . a wife? Lover? Favorite dog? Maybe he would tell her tomorrow. That was if he was still in residence. She had a suspicion he would leave her life once more without a second thought . . . To her disgust her eyes filled with tears. She wiped them away and cursed herself for being a sentimental idiot. On that thought she finally drifted into sleep.

Beth woke to the sound of a piano. Confused, she glanced at the clock—three a.m., more or less. Slowly she sat up as comprehension trickled in. After a moment she pushed aside the covers and stood, took her bathrobe from the foot of the bed, and went into the living room.

Greg sat at the piano. In the soft light of the reading lamp he looked a little better, but wore an expression she remembered well from their college days, a combination of melancholy and vulnerability that suited him somehow. He looked up when she came in, his gaze keen. After a few moments he paused and moved over a bit to make room for her on the bench. She accepted his offer and watched him resume playing.

"No comments about stealing your piano." He executed a complicated riff.

"By now it's expected." She smiled a little at his chuckle.

"Need to get in a tuner." He hesitated. "No violin in evidence."

For answer she held out her hands. Crooked fingers told their own tale. "I can get in about half an hour before my pain levels start going up. I still teach violin and piano but don't play anymore." She put her hands in her lap. "It's what I've got left now, but it's enough. And I had the piano tuned a couple of months ago. Wet weather causes problems."

"And you moved to a hot humid climate because it's so good for you."

"I came for the music. It's everywhere. I love it. That's a fair trade."

He didn't speak right away. "You were here for Katrina."

Beth shook her head. "I bought this place two years after. Mom left me her house in the will, but the winters are so damn cold in Michigan . . . I sold it and used the money for the purchase. I got this place cheap because it needed some work. It's pretty decent now."

"There's a whole backstory there you're gonna tell me someday." He finished the tune and sat up, eased his right leg out straight. Beth felt a curious sense of elation at the implication he might stay, as well as concern about his pain levels. She knew better than to say anything about the latter, however. If he stayed long enough she'd find out what had happened to him.

"How about an exchange? I owe you one anyway."

He turned a bit to face her with a quizzical expression. "Explain."

She felt her cheeks grow warm and regretted her impulse. "Not now. Later this morning." She stood. "Do you need something to help you sleep?"

"That sounds like an invitation." The mocking tone caught at her. She felt an old familiar pain, set it aside.

"Just for breakfast." She hesitated. "I've got a good sleep med you can try, if it won't interact with anything you might be taking."

Greg shook his head. "They don't work. This—" He gestured at the piano. "This does."

Beth nodded. "Okay." She turned away.

"You haven't shacked up with anyone." It was a statement, not a question.

"We'll talk after breakfast." And she left him there.

It felt odd but good to sleep in. Usually she was out early on Saturdays to shop at Rouses before it got crowded, but today she'd go later on. She watched watery sunshine fill her window and thought of the day ahead. Eventually she rose and started the process of waking up.

She'd just put the second load of laundry in the washer when Greg came into the kitchen. In silence he stumped to the coffeemaker, took the empty carafe and held it up, brows raised.

"Coffee's in the cabinet next to the fridge, help yourself."

That earned her a grunt, but he did as she directed. Soon enough the fragrance of fresh brew filled the kitchen. Greg poured a full mug and took a seat at the table. Beth left the washer to its work and went to get her own cup. "I've got bacon, eggs and some bread for toast."

He nodded but didn't speak. Beth felt again that strong sense of the surreal. _Greg is sitting in my kitchen._ She turned to the fridge and opened it, began to take out items. "How'd you find me?"

"You're listed in the phone book." When she shot him a glance he gave her an innocent look. She almost laughed aloud at his teasing; for just a moment she was back in college.

"Dylan told you." She set the skillet on the burner and adjusted the flame, lay bacon strips in the pan.

"A few years ago he mentioned you might be around here somewhere." Greg took a long swallow of coffee. "You graduated, I take it."

Beth nodded. "I worked in the school system teaching violin and piano until budget cuts took away anything beyond the basics." She drank some coffee before she spoke again. "Where did you work? After school, I mean."

"Several places. Princeton, at the end." He studied her. "You've never been with anyone."

She turned the bacon with care. "Actually I have."

Greg set down his mug. "Get the hell out."

"No, really." She moved to the fridge and took some eggs, then retrieved two plates from the cupboard. "We were together for four years. He wanted to move back to New York, I didn't." She paused, unsure if she should ask. "You-you've been with someone?"

"Yeah."

They ate at the kitchen table, with WWOZ playing softly in the background. "I'll go to the market later this morning. If you plan to stay, let me know what you'd like."

Greg gave her that level stare she remembered well. "I can stay."

"Of course—"

"There's no 'of course' about it!" He sounded almost angry. "I left you behind, we haven't talked for forty years!"

Beth looked down at her plate. "I know all that. But as you say, that was forty years ago." She lifted her gaze to his. "I think you need a chance to catch your breath from whatever happened to you before you came here. I'm willing to give you that chance because we were—were friends. Maybe we still are. If you're okay with finding out, so am I."

He continued to watch her, his eyes bright in his ravaged features. "'kay," he said finally, and returned to devouring his breakfast. Beth felt that strange sense of joy once more.

 _We'll see how things go_ , she thought, and made a mental note to get some beignets for Sunday breakfast.

' _Hey Pockey Way,' the Meters_


	9. Chapter 9

Greg sat back in the easy chair and stretched out a bit. Monday evening had begun to cast its shadow over the deck; from Bramble's kitchen he smelled sausage, red beans and rice, while on the radio Bessie Smith sang about a pigfoot and a bottle of beer. His own brew was fresh and cold, spilling a few beads of condensation on the low table next to his chair.

 _I could get used to this_. He'd taken a chance coming here, but it had paid off unexpected dividends. He had a place to stay as long as he wanted it—the other half of Bramble's house. "No one's asked about coming down for festival season," she'd said with that hesitant smile he remembered from years ago. "Might as well have someone keeping the place in use."

And he had Bramble on hand. She'd aged pretty well, all things considered. At some point she'd lost a fair amount of weight. It revealed a decent figure with a long waist, despite the effects of gravity over forty years. She'd cut her hair in a short crop that suited her. Her eyes were the same cornflower blue, with laugh lines around the corners. And she sported a tattoo on her right bicep—a semicolon in the shape of a hummingbird. He intended to ask her about that later.

Unbidden came the memory of the kiss they'd shared so many years ago. She'd allowed him to touch her, a sign of tremendous trust he hadn't earned; he'd been apprehensive about wounding her further, and ended up leaving when it was the last thing he'd wanted to do. Now . . . He pulled his mind away from speculation. It was too soon after everything that had happened over the last two years—Cuddy, prison, his false death and Wilson's real one. And why would she still want him? A used-up, crippled felon . . . any woman would cringe at the thought.

"Hey." Bramble plopped into the chair next to his and set a beer on the table. "Dinner's ready." Greg looked her, brows raised.

"You actually consume alcohol?"

"I do now." She put her feet up, reached for the bottle and took a long swallow.

Realization struck forty years late. "Of course. You don't have to worry about letting the truth slip out."

She nodded. "Worthing died a few years back. Before that some of his older students had accused him openly of rape and abuse. He stroked out during the inquiry and ended up brain-dead for a couple of months before his wife finally pulled the plug."

Greg sipped his beer. He wasn't about to tell her he'd had a hand in getting the information to light. "You didn't participate."

"Yeah, I did. My parents were both gone by then and I didn't care what the rest of the family thought." She looked off into the distance. "He deserved what he got. Back in school I should have left him to find another teacher, but those were different times. Girls were supposed to put up with whatever got dished out." There was no bitterness in her tone.

"Your parents never knew."

"No, I didn't tell them. It was pointless and would have caused them immense pain. I didn't want to make them go through that. It's enough that I know." She glanced over at him. "Your turn."

"You said you owed me an exchange," he reminded her. She smiled, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the young woman he remembered.

"Okay, good enough." She got up. "Dinner's getting cold."

Over a plate of sausage, red beans and rice he said "'Good enough' means you were gonna tell me something else."

Bramble added some sausage to her plate. "Yes."

"Go on, spill."

"Then you'll owe me." She hesitated. "Are you up for that?"

"I'm better than I look." He finished off his beer and rose to get another one, gripped the table as his thigh gave a warning spasm.

"Sit. I'll get it." Her brisk manner didn't fool him, but he allowed her to bring him another beer. When he'd opened it he drank half of it, belched and handed her his plate.

"More."

She lifted her chin in that way he'd always secretly enjoyed, but he saw the humor in her gaze as well. She'd mellowed a bit over the years, good to know. He watched as she piled on a second helping, handed it back and settled into her chair.

"So tell." He took a huge bite of sausage.

"Yeah, okay." Bramble folded her arms and looked at him. "Do you remember when we—the last time we saw each other?"

He chewed and swallowed. "Can't say I do."

She rolled her eyes. "Liar. Anyway—when you kissed me . . ." She was silent for a few moments. "That changed things. You were the first boy to do that—kiss me. After what happened with Worthing I thought no one would ever . . . You showed me I was wrong."

Greg lowered his fork. "I'm not a social worker."

"I know. You didn't mean it that way, I get it. That's why it was so important." She picked up her beer. "Your turn. If you're not ready—"

"My best friend died."

They sat in silence for a while. "I'm sorry." Her voice was so soft he almost couldn't hear her. When Greg looked at her, she watched him with that steady gaze he remembered from their time together—no pity or sympathy, just that quiet understanding he realized now he'd relied on back in school. "Tell me about him, if you want."

They ended up in the living room. Bramble turned on a lamp and settled in the easy chair she seemed to prefer, while he took the recliner. Once he was more or less comfortable he felt reluctant to open up the subject. She started them off. "I'm guessing your friend's name was Wilson."

Greg shot her a glance. "Good guess." He drank some beer. "Ironic that cancer killed him. He was an oncologist."

"How long did you know each other?"

"Seems like forever. We met here at a convention years ago. Bailed him out of jail after he broke a mirror in some bar."

Bramble didn't speak right away. "You worked together." Greg gave a single nod. "A long time, then."

Her acumen shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. "Another educated guess."

She looked down at her hands. "You're supposed to be dead. An explosion in a warehouse or something like that. Dylan sent me the news article." She hesitated. "If Doctor Wilson died within the last six months, that means you probably spent the time with him. I can't see you giving up everything unless it was for a close friend."

Greg eyed her with grudging respect. "So you thought I was dead."

"Yes, of course." Her tone was neutral, but he sensed emotion behind the reply.

"You don't sound that upset about it."

"I'm not now." Her smile glimmered in the soft light.

He knew then his decision was made. He would stay, at least for a while. And he had a puzzle at hand. Forty years to catch up on-in particular, those years Bramble spent shacked up with someone else.

"You know, I can hear the wheels turning in that head of yours." She regarded him with mild amusement. "You gonna hang out?"

"Maybe."

"You'll have some explaining to do when Dylan stops by."

For some reason he hadn't expected that. "You two still see each other after all this time."

"Yeah, we do." Bramble finished her beer and got to her feet. "We play poker now and then too, usually when he's just come into some money."

"Good to know." He watched her walk to the kitchen. She moved with care, as he'd expect from someone with stiff joints. Once more he took in the living room. It was comfortable, furnished with shabby, well-made furniture. Some of the pieces came from her childhood home, no doubt. There was plenty of light available from floor and table lamps; the small fireplace looked as if it was used occasionally. There was one on his side of the house too. The worn oriental carpet, the crocheted-lace curtains faded to ivory, shelves full of books and music . . . they spoke of a good life made of equal parts work and enjoyment. She'd overcome difficulties and created a home where anyone could feel welcome.

The last few months of Wilson's life had been a slow, unavoidable slide into a nightmare, something they'd both known would happen eventually. That hadn't made it any easier to go through, along with the loss of his best friend. He'd planned to follow Wilson into oblivion until he'd remembered that line in the article about the class action lawsuit: 'Ms. Bramble, a resident of New Orleans…' and for some reason he'd decided to take a chance. Now he was glad he'd followed his impulse. He could rest and heal here, then move on when he'd worn out his welcome.

"You're looking thoughtful." Bramble resumed her seat and settled in with a soft sigh.

"Your pain levels are up." His were too, and he was getting low on Vicodin.

"The weather doesn't help." She rubbed her left knee, an absent gesture. "I'm using medical marijuana now. You might want to give it a try if you have a lot of chronic pain."

The fact that she hadn't asked about his leg reminded him she owned far more tact than he would ever know. He shook his head. "Opioids are my drug of choice."

"Tough to get here legally." She paused. "You have a decent ID? One that could pass some digging?"

"Probably." He wouldn't want to put it to the test, though. The mere thought of returning to prison in New Jersey made him shake inside.

"Okay. Well, if you try for opioids you'll run into trouble eventually. Cannabis is easier, though it costs more." She reached for something on the stand next to her—the tv remote. She leaned over and handed it to him. When her fingers brushed his palm he felt a spark, an odd sensation. "Something to consider, anyway."

He knew she was right, but he'd hold out for a little longer. "Think you're so smart." He turned on the tv and began a search for a game.

"I know what works." She gave him a sidelong look, that gleam of amusement evident once more. "You do too, better than I do."

When he retired to his side of the house later, he dug around and found a few remaining Marlboros tucked away in his backpack, along with a lighter. He went out on the rear porch, a bit apprehensive that he'd be attacked by hordes of mosquitos. But the night was cool and quiet and pest-free, aside from a dog barking off in the distance. He sat in the old patio chair, lit up and contemplated the evening sky as he exhaled stale tobacco smoke. Through the screen door he could hear Bramble in her kitchen, putting away dishes before she set things up for breakfast the next day. The homely sound eased a little of the grief he was still unable to face.

 _I'll stay. Just for a while, til I get bored or she gets fed up_. He wasn't ready for a long-term solution to his situation, wasn't sure there even was one he could live with. But he was here now with someone who knew a little of his past and was willing to put up with him, at least for the moment. It was enough.

 _Wilson would have liked her._ The thought hurt, but he let it stand. He got up, put out what was left of his smoke, and went in to bed. Time enough to think about a plan, if he needed one. He'd consider her idea of using cannabis instead of Vicodin; he'd cut back so much in the last month that he'd probably find it easier now to quit. If pot worked for him, he'd get things set up.

For a long time he lay in the big comfortable bed, listening to the night sounds of the neighborhood as memories drifted through his mind, until sleep finally stole him away, bit by bit.

' _Just What I Needed,' The Cars_


	10. Chapter 10

_(Many thanks for all the reviews, they're much appreciated. Thank you to my guest reviewers for the kind words. To the reviewer who enjoyed the reference to Rouse's-sorry about the apostrophe, I'm a Yankee :D Hope you all enjoy the new chapter, and thanks again for reading. -Brig)_

Beth gave her student an encouraging smile. "You played that well. Let's try it again. Do you remember what comes after the second measure?"

"A pause." The girl brightened when Beth nodded.

"Exactly right. Okay, here we go."

By the end of the lesson Jessie had the phrasing down correctly, and a bigger store of self-confidence as well. Beth sent her out to her mother with a sense of mingled accomplishment and relief; this was the last student of the day, as well as the week. She shut the door and returned to the piano. It was a bit more difficult to teach these days, but she still enjoyed the process.

"The kid's got no talent." Greg stood in the connecting doorway. Beth gave him a glance. She put her hands on the keys and began a quiet melody with a rolling bass line beneath the simple melody. It hurt to play, but she didn't mind. The ability to make music compensated for the discomfort.

"She enjoys the lessons."

"Once she hits the end of her learning curve she'll find out how bad she really is." He came into the living room, a hand on his right thigh. "False hope is worse than none at all."

"Not everyone who learns an instrument wants a career. If she plays well enough to enjoy it, that's all that matters." Beth finished the song. "She's the first person in her family to take up the piano. No matter how well or badly she plays, they'll think she's amazing."

"More fool them." He perched on the arm of the easy chair. "She's the last student."

"Yes." Greg had been in residence for almost a month now; he knew her lesson schedule and daily routine better than she did. "Let's get takeout tonight. Got a taste for anything in particular?"

"Chinese. Crandall's coming over for the game."

Beth rubbed the knuckles on her right hand. "Yeah, he'll be here a bit later. Menus are in the drawer by the fridge." She watched Greg head into the kitchen. Since he'd started using cannabis he slept better—she'd heard him at the piano in the early hours just twice in the last week, instead of almost every night-and his pain levels were down somewhat, if his reduced limp was anything to go by. She was glad to see it, but the happiness was accompanied by worry.

 _He's thinking of leaving_. She couldn't shake the knowledge. Of course he'd never said he would stay; she knew he'd come here as a last resort, and she was glad he'd done so. She'd watched him regain some strength and maybe even a measure of peace, although she knew he held a profound grief for the loss of his friend. Still, he was well enough to go now if he wanted . . . and she hoped with all her heart he wouldn't.

 _Forty years later, and I still love him_. It was utterly ridiculous; all that time meant both of them had changed in some ways that would be difficult to talk about, much less understand. And yet the feeling deep within was love, she knew it beyond doubt. She'd never tell him of course, unless she wanted to see him take off even sooner than he would otherwise. The pain of that knowledge caught at her.

"Mu shu pork with extra pancakes," Greg said from the doorway. "Chicken fried rice and two orders of dumplings." He stared at her. "Something's wrong."

"I'm a little achy today." It was close enough to the truth to be plausible. "Okay, I'll call it in."

She'd just paid the delivery guy his tip and put the order on the kitchen table when Greg spoke again. "You're not hurting any more tonight than usual." His voice was level, but Beth saw his hand tighten on the fridge door handle as he got himself a beer.

"I'm not kicking you out, if that's what you're worried about." She kept her tone light. "Wanna get me a beer too?"

"Bramble." He stood behind her now. Beth concentrated on setting out the containers. She stopped when she felt Greg's hand on her shoulder. His touch was gentle. Whatever he was about to say was lost when Dylan banged on the front door.

"Hey Beth! I'm here!"

Greg muttered under his breath and moved back. Beth closed her eyes for a moment. "I mean it," she said quietly, "you can stay as long as you like," and headed into the living room where Dylan stood with arms outstretched and a wide grin.

They settled into dinner around the coffee table as usual, with jazz playing in the background and Dylan's chatter filling up the room. "Leona says hi. She's working in New York but she'll be down to visit in the fall." He took another dumpling and some chicken. "I got a pickup gig at Three Muses tomorrow if you want to check it out." He glanced at Greg. "You should go to a rehearsal sometime. They're always looking for decent piano players."

"Kinda hard to do when you're dead." Greg dumped pork on his plate.

"You think someone would recognize you or something?" Dylan took a large bite of dumpling. Chewing, he considered the problem. "Yeah, they might. Everyone has a phone with a camera now."

Beth stared down at her food, her appetite gone. "The longer you stay, the more chance that will happen." She hadn't meant to say it out loud, but now she realized it was true. Her heart sank at the knowledge. _He'll leave soon, I know it._

" _Hey!_ " When Beth looked up she found Greg glaring at her. "I can make my own decisions!"

"Well yeah." Dylan gave him a questioning glance. "No one said you have to leave, G-man." He polished off the second half of the dumpling and reached for his beer. "I'd kinda like you to stick around. It's great having you here."

Beth took a chance. She kept her gaze on Greg as she spoke. "What—what he said." It was as close as she could come to saying 'I love you' without spooking him completely.

Greg continued to stare at her. Slowly his expression softened. "Huh," he said at last, and picked up his beer. For some reason that was it, she couldn't take any more. She got up and fled to her bedroom, closed the door behind her, sat on the bed and wiped away the tears on her cheeks. But more followed, and she ended up curled on her side with her face buried in the pillow like some lovelorn teenager, to stifle the sound of her crying. When she felt a hand on her arm she pulled free, mortified.

"I'm fine. Go away."

"Jesus, you're still a prickly little brat!" Greg eased onto the bed next to her. She rolled over a bit and fumbled around for a tissue. He took one from the box, gave it to her and made a sound that might have been the ghost of a laugh. "You're also a mess."

"Thanks a lot." She wiped her eyes, blew her nose and sat up, aware her face was scarlet and swollen from crying as well as the embarrassment she felt. Greg took the tissue and tossed it in the general direction of the trash basket, put his hand under her chin, studied her for a moment. Beth saw amusement and something else in those vivid blue eyes, some emotion akin to tenderness. Slowly he leaned in and kissed her. She trembled under the unexpected touch of his lips.

"Still feels pretty much the same as the last time we did this," he said softly when the kiss ended. Beth nodded. After a moment's hesitation, she took his hand, felt his fingers clasp hers.

"I'm . . . I'm not a naïve young girl anymore. But I'm still me, and I still love you. It's a bit of a surprise to me too."

"Beth . . ." He sighed.

"It's okay, I know you don't feel the same way—"

"No, it isn't that." He fell silent a few moments. "I'm . . . I'm not good at this. I hurt people." He paused when a loud, ostentatious set of knocks sounded through the room.

"Are we gonna play or what?" Dylan wanted to know. Beth couldn't help but smile when Greg growled and moved back a bit. His bright gaze met hers; then he gave her another kiss, one that made her tingle right down to her toes, before he got to his feet and brought her with him. When they opened the door Dylan regarded them both, hands on hips. He said nothing, just rolled his eyes, shook his head and stomped off to the kitchen. Greg glanced at Beth and raised his brows, so that she couldn't hold back a watery giggle. Just for a moment they were back in time, scamming the people in her dorm, a conspiracy of two.

She didn't remember much of the evening after that—only laughter and music and several lost hands about which she didn't care at all, and at the end Dylan at the door, holding her in a gentle embrace before he left. "Damn, wild child. Still going for nimrods," he'd whispered, but his smile told her he was genuinely happy for her.

When she returned to the kitchen Greg stood in the doorway, beer in hand. He watched as she gathered up the remains of the takeout and put them away. When she was done he turned and limped into the living room. Beth followed him, to find he'd claimed the recliner. She chose her easy chair and turned on the table lamp next to her.

"If you want to talk, go ahead." She broke the silence reluctantly.

"I'm a private person. You don't ask, I don't tell."

She fought an urge to both laugh and give him a thump. "Greg—"

"Stop. I know what you want." He took a long swallow of beer and stared off into the distance for a while before he spoke again. "You're offering free room and board to an ex-con with charges against him if the cops find out he's still kicking. Aside from that I drove a car into my girlfriend's living room after she dumped me. And I let a patient die in that warehouse—before the fire, if that makes a difference."

Beth didn't answer him right away. What he'd told her was a complete shock, like a bucket of ice water dumped over her head. "You—you let a patient die. And drove into your girlfriend's house."

"Just said so."

She considered his statement for a few moments. This didn't fit the Greg she knew. _Forty years_ , she reminded herself. "Is she—was she hurt?"

"Whether she was or not is immaterial." He sounded hostile now, a sure sign he was ready to shut down on her. She wasn't about to let him off the hook though, not after this revelation.

"It's important to me." She folded her arms. "I need to know, Greg. Because if you—"

" _No,_ I didn't hurt her. Not physically, anyway. Otherwise, I have to say yes." He finished his beer and set the bottle on the floor. "Satisfied?"

"What happened before that?"

Greg glared at her. "Don't find a way to make excuses for me."

"I'm _not_! I'm trying to understand," Beth snapped. "You cheated on an exam and lost a year of school for no real reason, but I don't think that's the case here."

He was silent so long she didn't think he planned to answer her. "Exchange."

She knew that was coming. He wouldn't tell her more without payment in kind; she was surprised he'd opened up as much as he had in the first place. "Okay. Ask," although she had no doubt about what he'd demand.

"The guy you lived with."

"I met him at a concert ten years ago. We had a mutual friend and he'd invited Chris along with him. We got to talking and found we had some things in common. He said he was a musician with a lawyer day-job gig." She paused, remembering. "Not a bad guitar player, not great either. He didn't put any effort into either his partnership or his playing. That should have tipped me off. But he was funny, charming, smart. Good looking. I couldn't figure out why he wanted to be with someone like me. For all four years we were together, I wondered every night. When we split up, he told me. He just wanted a housekeeper and a handy fuck. As long as he kept me sweet, he got both." She shook her head. "Kicking his sorry ass out the door was the most satisfying thing I've done since I told Worthing to fuck off right after graduation."

Greg almost smiled. "Good for you." He looked down at the floor. "All of what you said about your ex could apply to me."

Beth gave him an appraising stare, secretly amused at the way he squirmed under it. "Some, maybe. But at least you'd be honest about it." She leaned back in the chair. "Exchange."

"Already did."

"No you didn't. You gave me a taste to get me interested."

He snorted. "Huh. Still not boring." His amusement faded, replaced by a fleeting expression of profound sadness.

"So you went to prison," she prompted when he stayed silent. "How long?"

"Eight months. Should have been a year, but they got tired of my shit and kicked me out."

The casual remark appalled her. "A _year_ . . ." How had he survived?

Greg rolled his eyes. "I'm tougher than I look."

 _No you're not_ , Beth thought. Aloud she said "What was your girlfriend like?"

"That's another question—"

"Yeah, okay." She waved a hand at him. "Tell."

"It was Cuddy."

" _Lisa?_ " Another surprise. "H-how-?"

"One interrogation at a time. Long story." Suddenly he sounded defeated, almost scared. Beth decided to take another chance. She reached out and took his hand in hers.

"I'm listening."

He looked down. With great gentleness he turned her hand palm up, traced the crooked fingers, the bumps and twists. Then he lifted his gaze to hers. "Okay."

' _Girls Talk,' Elvis Costello_


	11. Chapter 11

The morning was a stormy one, but in a quiet way. Greg sipped his coffee and stared out at the rain. The glad fragrance of breakfast drifted in from Bramble's kitchen, an anticipatory delight. He was even looking forward to the grits, something he'd never thought would happen. She wasn't a world-class chef, but then he didn't expect her to be, after all. It was enough that she was willing to provide food. That she happened to be a decent cook was lagniappe, as the locals liked to say.

He glanced at the guitar propped in a corner by the piano. It was nothing special—a battered Martin six-string, but he'd found it in a pawn shop and made good use of it for the last week.

 _("I know who pawned it," Bramble said after she found him on the back porch, playing whatever came into his head. "When you get yourself something better I'll buy it from you and give it back to the original owner, if you're okay with that."_

" _Fine by me." He was amused at her altruism. "You're paying full price."_

 _She offered him that hesitant smile he liked. "I'd expect nothing less.")_

He could hear the kitchen radio playing Mavis Staples, accompanied by the sound of Bramble's voice as she sang along.

 _Well I once had a life, or rather_

 _life had me_

 _I was one among the many_

 _or at least I seemed to be_

 _well I read an old quotation in a book just yesterday_

 _said 'you gonna reap just what you sow_

 _the debts you make you'll have to pay'_

 _Can you get to that?_

He sat there, mug in hand, and listened as Beth sang harmony in that effortless way he secretly envied.

 _When you base your life on credit_

 _and your loving days are done_

 _checks you signed with a 'love and kisses'_

 _later come back signed 'insufficient funds'_

 _now can you get to that y'all_

After she'd come in with a tray and settled them both with plates of food, he said "I need to go back to New Jersey."

Bramble glanced at him. She wasn't surprised; so she'd been thinking about this too. "What would that mean for you?"

"Don't know." That was the truth, though he had some hypotheses about what awaited him. "A hearing or trial for sure. Jail time, that's possible."

"Prison? For what? Faking your own death?"

He ate some grits before he answered her. "Among other things."

Now she was definitely upset, but he could detect no anger against him personally. That came as a surprise, though it shouldn't have; she had a remarkable clarity of mind when it came to the parsing of cause and effect.

"How can I help?"

He shook his head. "You can't."

"I'm not a lawyer, but I do know a few." The wry tone in her reply reminded him she'd shared a bed with one. "I can make a couple of calls, if you need me to."

He opened his mouth to issue a scathing retort, hesitated. She'd left it up to him—no ultimatums or pronouncements. It was so typical of her he had to bite back his original answer, much against his will. "There's someone who might help. She still thinks I'm dead though."

Bramble nodded. Then she reached out, took his hand in hers. They sat there for a moment.

"Can we at least have sex when I come back? As incentive," he said finally. Bramble turned to look at him. _She's blushing_ , he thought with some amusement, and then _she never expected me to ask._ The realization held an odd sadness, along with another insight, one he'd known for some time: _she doesn't think she's attractive. She never did_. True, she was no raving beauty, but she'd made the most of what she had. It looked good on her. He couldn't say the same, he knew that every time he was forced to look in the mirror. She'd aged far more gracefully than he had . . . He came out of his thoughts to find her watching him, her gaze steady.

"We could arrange that. Or even before you leave, if you like." Her tone held both uncertainty and mild amusement. After a moment he nodded, unwilling to put his agreement into words. Her clasp tightened gently.

After breakfast was finished and the dishes stacked in the sink, Bramble led him to her bedroom. At the door he hesitated. "I don't need someone who sees any good in me. I need someone . . . someone who sees the bad and wants me anyway—" He stopped when she put a finger to his lips.

"You talk too much."

He took a seat at his side of the bed while she turned on a lamp. With some hesitation she removed her clothes and folded them before she placed them in a chair by the dresser. He found her matter-of-fact attitude charming, even attractive, but then she'd always been down-to-earth in her dealings with him. There was no reason why sex should be any different.

When she turned around he studied her. After a moment she folded her arms and tilted her head a little. "Well, did I pass inspection?" He savored the tart tone in her words. "You might consider reciprocating."

With reluctance he stood, peeled off his tee shirt, hesitated. Then he pushed down his jeans and waited. Bramble looked at his leg and the hideous scar he'd made even worse with his own attempt at surgery. Her expression changed—not to disgust as he'd expected, but pain, and a deep sadness. When he saw tears in her eyes, he couldn't help but growl at her. "Cut it out!"

She looked down, said nothing. He ditched his jeans and limped over to stop in front of her. "If you're just gonna cry, this won't work." He reached out, hesitated, put a hand on her shoulder. "You don't have to—"

And then she embraced him, her face buried in the join of his neck and shoulder. Slowly he brought his arms up, astonished at the feel of her body against his—something he'd thought about now and then over the years, usually in the small hours when his brain scourged him with what-ifs over his many mistakes. She was warm and soft, her skin like silk . . .

The next thing he knew he was on the bed with her, being kissed. It was a scorcher, delivered with so much passion he thought the sheets might catch fire. After a moment he gave in and returned it—what the hell, why not. When she came up for air he held her face in his hands. "Holy _shit_. Who knew, wild child?"

She choked on a laugh, then kissed him again. She was damn good at it, and he knew a moment of regret that he hadn't spent time with her in school exploring her technique. Another part of his mind wondered if the asshole lawyer had taught her, but he doubted it—this was natural ability, and plenty of it. While the rational side contemplated this question, the rest of him was intensely aware of her breasts against his chest, her hands, warm and callused, her smile when he settled her atop him.

"Protection," he managed to say. Beth shook her head.

"It's okay. Tell you later." She gasped softly as he eased into her, her eyes wide. In that moment he remembered her on a cold late-winter night, looking up at him with a trust and love he'd never earned. Now he saw a lifetime of experience behind the same feelings. The realization troubled him in a way he hadn't anticipated. He'd warned her, after all. But he was still human enough to accept what she wanted to offer, and enjoy the experience.

Afterward they lay together and listened to the rain fall. "This complicates things a bit," he dared to say. Beth stirred a little.

"Yes" She rubbed his arm gently. "It could be that I like things complicated."

"You'll regret saying that."

"We'll see." She dropped a kiss on his cheek. "If you come back, anyway."

"If . . . if I can, I will."

She sighed softly and rested her head against his shoulder. "Okay."

"I didn't need a rubber," he reminded her after a long, contented silence. She stretched a bit.

"I had a partial hysterectomy some years ago. My gynecologist found pre-cancerous cells in my Pap smear. Everything's fine, I go in once a year to make sure."

He trailed his fingers over her arm, delighting in the simple joy of having her close. "I want to check your records."

She gave him a little caress. "Thanks."

Dinner that evening was almost silent. There was no need to talk on either side; it was enough to be together. When they'd finished Beth gave him a kiss, then left him alone in the living room. _Admirably discreet,_ he thought, and drew in a deep breath. Time to get things started.

He made the call to Stacy and endured the entire revelatory process without too much protest. It was in a good cause, after all. The sooner he returned to New Orleans, the better off he'd be.

When the discussion was over and travel plans had been made, he went out to the kitchen where Beth waited for him. In silence she offered him a beer, which he accepted with gratitude. "She'll take me on," he said after a time. "Sounds like I'll be in New Jersey for a while, for the legal stuff. After that, depending on the outcome . . . we'll see." He took a long swallow.

"When do you leave?" Beth's voice was quiet.

"Tomorrow morning. Stacy got me an early flight." He didn't need to mention she'd be waiting with a police escort.

"Okay. I'll take you to the airport."

"You don't—" He stopped when she clasped his hand. He'd begun to like the way she claimed him, her small, workworn fingers gentle.

"I know."

He didn't bother going to his side of the house that night. Instead he took some comfort in the feel of her body close to his. He fell asleep to the sound of her quiet breathing.

He woke early, to find Beth up before him. She made coffee and toast for both of them while he put clean clothes in his backpack, along with his wallet and phone.

The ride to the airport was silent. Greg listened to the radio and tried not to think of what lay ahead. Beth didn't speak, but her presence was enough. He focused on having her close; it was the last time they'd be side by side for a while, maybe for good.

She had to leave him when they reached the security gate. He leaned on his cane and stared down at her. "Thanks for the ride."

"You're welcome." She reached up, touched his cheek, just as she had done so many years ago. "Call me when you get there, if you can."

He nodded, unable to say anything more. She gave him a caress, stepped back. He turned and limped away. When he reached the line for the security search he looked back. She was there—a still figure in a continual mass of activity, her gaze fixed on him.

It was much later when he was settled in his seat that he took out his phone to check for messages and found one from her. It was a link to a Spotify playlist. He put in his earbuds and opened the list, intrigued. When Hall and Oates began to sing he had to smile. He closed his eyes and let the music take him to another place and time—not an idyllic one, but it had its moments. He hoped to create more moments like them soon, after he'd paid off his debts once and for all.

' _Can You Get To That,' Mavis Staples_

' _Your Kiss Is On My List,' Hall & Oates_


	12. Chapter 12

_(This is the end of this story, but there's a sequel in the works and I hope to post it sooner rather than later. Thank you to all the reviewers. Your comments are the best sort of paycheck, and gratefully received. -Brig)_

Beth put the last dish in the rack and hung the tea towel on its hook, picked up her cup of coffee and settled at the kitchen table with her laptop and lesson schedule. The coming holidays had disrupted everything as usual, but she had several students who needed help with recitals and church or school performances; it meant a little extra income for her, always welcome. She booted up her laptop and got to work, though it was hard to concentrate. Greg had promised to call her with news of his arrival date, but she'd heard nothing. She fought the temptation to call him first. Even if he was on his way he probably wouldn't answer, and she'd just worry more.

They'd talked a week ago. "I'm almost done with everything here," he'd said, and she'd heard relief coupled with intense annoyance in his voice. "I'll get home as soon as I can." She'd treasured his use of the word 'home', knowing he'd done it deliberately. On what had happened to him over the last six months, he'd said little to nothing. She would find out more when he returned, of that she was certain.

 _He'll make me work for it._ She smiled at the thought. Both of them relied on the old game of exchange; it offered safety, and a chance to say things neither of them would have offered outside its structure. His trust in her had grown slowly but surely, and hers in him as well.

The afternoon moved by at a crawl. She made a fresh coffee, answered a few emails, studied the view from the window for a while. The house felt lonely—hell, _she_ felt lonely. She wanted the sound of Greg at her piano in the small hours, the comfort of his lean body next to hers . . . _Get back to work_ , she scolded herself.

She was almost done with her final revisions on the schedule when she heard a knock at the front door. Frowning, she checked her dates. She didn't have anyone due to come over today . . . The knock sounded again. Beth got to her feet and went into the living room as quietly as possible. Lately there'd been a plague of missionaries pestering the neighborhood, and she really didn't feel like kicking them off her porch again. She hesitated but heard nothing. With a sigh she unlocked the door and opened it a bit. "What do you want—" she began, then fell silent.

Greg wore a new jacket over his usual tee shirt and jeans and the cane he held was new too, but the same old battered backpack was slung over one shoulder, and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"I want you." He raised a brow. "You look surprised." The sound of his voice made her heart leap. She came forward to wrap her arms around him and bring him close. The backpack hit the porch floor with a thud, along with the cane; then he kissed her, and nothing else mattered for some time.

Eventually she led him into the house, guided him to the couch, went back out to gather his things. As she turned to go inside she caught sight of her neighbor across the street, grinning at her from the little balcony above his own porch. He gave her a thumbs-up and chuckled. She shook her head but offered a smile before she shut the door behind her.

Greg was sprawled on the couch, his jacket dumped over the arm. He looked worn out and he'd lost weight, but his expression was relaxed, almost peaceful. Beth took the spot next to him. He opened one eye and peered at her. "Nice."

She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. "Welcome home." It was impossible to keep the tremor out of her voice, but she didn't bother to try.

"Hey, don't start leaking salt water all over me." He kissed the corner of her mouth. "I missed breakfast and lunch, by the way."

He told her some of the basics over two helpings of eggs, sausage and grits. "All the new charges were dismissed. Stacy got me a shark of a lawyer who reduced my probation time to two months. It took a big chunk of my money, but it was worth it." He paused. "Hope you don't expect me to pay rent."

"Nope, I don't. But you could earn a few bucks sitting in on a pickup session or two if you want." She couldn't stop smiling.

"I'm not teaching kids." The defiance in his tone amused her.

"Okay," she said mildly. He gave her a hard stare.

"You won't change my mind."

"I know that." She rose, took his cup and hers to get fresh coffee for them both. When she returned to the table, she saw he was almost asleep. Without another word she eased him to his feet, put his arm around her shoulders and took him to the bedroom. The fact that he made no protest told her how exhausted he was. She helped him undress, settled him in bed and brought up the covers. He was out cold before she left the room.

She went to bed early, delighted to curl up next to him. The sound of his soft snores was the best music she'd heard in months. Eventually she drifted off, only to be wakened somewhere in the neighborhood of two a.m. by the sound of the piano. On a yawn she climbed out of bed, felt around for her robe, and shuffled down the hall to the living room. When she came in Greg sent her a quick glance but continued to play. She came over and perched on the edge of the bench.

"You've been practicing."

He nodded but said nothing. She surmised from his silence that the topic had something to do with whatever had happened while he was away; she could either let it go, or take a chance. "Found a good teacher from the sound of things."

He didn't answer right away. "Exchange."

"Okay. You first." She chuckled at his groan. "Come on, you have a lot more to tell than I do."

"Be specific."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Who worked on your technique?"

He played a rolling riff. "Some old guy in the courthouse detention center."

"You had access to a piano?" That surprised her.

"Nope. Air all the way." He finished the riff. "Your turn. What did you do while I was away?"

Beth resisted the urge to hand him a sarcastic reply. She sensed anxiety behind that innocuous question. Instead she put her hands on the keys and began a melody, supported it with simple chords. "I thought about you. A lot."

Greg tilted his head a bit, listening. "And that's all you did." She gave him a smile. He grimaced. "Come on, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do. And I stand by my answer." She ended the tune, put her hand on his back, rubbed gently. "I was lonely for you."

Greg said nothing, but she felt him relax a bit. "Okay," he said after a time. "Go ahead."

"What happened when you arrived in New Jersey?"

"I thought you'd ask about the verdict first."

She kept her tone neutral. "We'll get there."

He sighed softly. "Stacy was waiting with the cops. At least they didn't haul me off to jail. She'd convinced some judge to let me stay at her place under house arrest." He offered a slight smirk. "See what I did there? Your turn." Beth nodded. "You're okay with me coming back. To stay, I mean."

The unspoken apprehension in that statement caught at her. She reached out, put her hand over his, felt him tremble. "Oh yes," she said softly, and leaned in to kiss him.

"Well that's settled," he said after the kiss ended. He sounded almost smug. Beth hid a smile.

"Yes. And I'm going back to bed." She started to rise, only to be gently pulled down once more.

"I owe you a question."

"It can wait." She hesitated. "I have a gig at Buffa's later today as rehearsal pianist for the opening act. You could come with me. I usually get comped a couple of beers, and I'll buy you dinner."

He didn't answer right away. "'kay."

She knew any attempt at reassurance would backfire, so she stood, dropped a kiss on the top of his head, and went back to bed.

It was deliciously pleasant to be roused from sleep with a kiss, even if the other person involved had a bit of dragon breath and a bristly chin.

"You awake?" His lips brushed her ear.

"Mmmm . . . mm-hm."

There in the soft darkness they became re-acquainted, touching, exploring curves and planes. When he settled her atop him his hands rested on her hips, firm and steady. She put her hands over his and felt him shiver.

"What is it?" she asked later, when they lay together once more. "Do you not want me to touch you like that when we make love?"

He was silent for a while. "It's not . . . you didn't do anything wrong." He sighed softly. "Just glad to be home."

She stroked his arm and kissed his cheek. "I'm glad too."

[H]

Later that evening Bramble took him to the gig, a place on Esplanade that showcased local talent. Greg watched as she settled in at the piano amid jokes and friendly catcalls from the other musicians. It was clear she was well-known and liked. He received some speculative glances, but no one disturbed him.

For an hour he nursed a beer and watched Bramble take the band through their set. It was impressed upon him yet again that her choice to teach rather than perform was a sound one; she presided over the process with unassuming authority, her quick wit put to good use. By the time they reached the sound check the band was looser, more relaxed and ready to groove.

"Nice job, Teach," he offered as she took a seat next to him. Bramble smiled and flexed her fingers, stole his beer and took a sip.

"Thanks. Ready for some dinner?"

Over fresh beers, blackened burgers, gator balls and a pile of onion rings she asked him "What do you want to do now?"

Greg munched a gator ball. "These things are weird. But good." He washed it down with some beer. "Don't know yet. No medical gigs though. I'm done with that."

"You still have your license?"

He nodded. "If I get hard up for money I can do consults."

"But that's not what you want." She took an onion ring. "So what is it?"

He didn't answer her right away. "Quantum physics. Dark matter."

Bramble's face lit up with interest. " _Cool_." She leaned forward a bit. "Tell me more."

"I'd have to go back to school. There's so much . . . so much to learn." He finished off his beer. "I'm too old."

"Bullshit you are. Why not get your PhD and go for it?"

He snorted. "It kinda costs money to do that sort of thing."

"So set up some consults and save your pennies. I'd bet anything you can get advanced placement for most of it and end up just writing a thesis."

"'Just'." He eyed her, amused. "So you're okay with a student boarding at your place."

Bramble leaned in and kissed him. "As long as you don't drive a car through my living room, because then I'd have to kick your ass down the street before I call the cops. I'd much rather keep that nice ass and the rest of you safe and happy in our place, if it's all the same to you."

He raised a brow, picked up a gator ball and offered it to her. She took a bite, made a face but ate it. He gave her a sip of his beer to wash it down, then leaned in and kissed her again. "Done."

 _'Romeo's Tune,' Steve Forbert_


End file.
